The Arrogance of Power
by AllenbysEyes
Summary: Eighteen year old Dipper and Mabel return to Gravity Falls to discover the town baffled by a strange burglary. Investigating leads them to horrible historical secrets and modern-day cover-ups, involving old allies, new friends and familiar foes. My stab at a Gravity Falls mystery with few supernatural elements. Mild Wendip, not the main focus. Contains violence and adult language.
1. Prologue

Prologue

June 17th, 2018

Toby Determined had discovered a most perplexing mystery. Too bad no one else in Gravity Falls seemed to care.

"Don't you see, there's something big here!" he insisted, hawking his latest issue of the Gravity Falls Gossiper to disinterested, mildly amused townsfolk. "People don't just break into buildings unless they're up to something.

As usual, the townsfolk indulged the weird, eccentric little man with the overalls and the cat whiskers and the grating voice without taking anything he said seriously.

"Dude, someone broke into the Museum of History and stole nothing," Mayor Cutebiker insisted. "That's not interesting."

"But it **is** interesting!" Toby wailed, causing the Mayor to cringe. "Someone broke into a building without stealing anything? A public building filled with records and files? Surely that's a mystery..."

Sheriff Blubbs interrupted. "The only mystery here is why anyone would break into the Museum at night. Isn't it boring enough there during the day?"

The townsfolk laughed in agreement. Toby shook his head.

"I know I'm right!" he insisted. "Maybe if we looked into it more..."

"You mean like you were right about the possums holding the Mayor hostage?" Sheriff Blubbs commented. "Turns out that he was just on vacation."

Toby lowered his head, blushing. "I saw him in a room with a bunch of furry things..."

"Those were _cats,_ Toby," Mayor Cutebiker said. "I was visiting my aunt."

"Even if it were a story, which it ain't, Shaundra Jimenez would have covered it on TV!" Sheriff Blubb's sidekick and partner, Deputy Darland, interjected.

Toby was stung by memories of his old rival, more recent coworker and not-so-secret crush. Even after their short-lived partnership on TV news, she hadn't warmed to the weird little man with his poorly-concealed affection. Still, he had called Shaundra about his suspicions before running his story about the break-in, feeling it better to have the story aired than to gain glory for himself.

Shaundra had laughed, a sour laughter born of annoyance with someone she'd spent the past decade mocking, ignoring and avoiding. "Toby, I have an interview with Preston Northwest tomorrow morning!" she said. "A Senate race, especially one involving one of the town's former bigwigs, is far more interesting than a third-rate burglary at a museum."

Then she hung up, the echo of the clicking phone ringing in Toby's ears even as the Mayor and the police and everyone laughed at him again.

"Oh marbles!" he warbled over their laughter, dropping his cheaply-printed newspapers into the street. He walked back towards his office, passing a huge sign on the local feed store:

 **FOR SENATE 2018**

 **PRESTON NORTHWEST**

 **MAKE OREGON THE BEST**

Nobody had ever taken Toby seriously in his life. Never had anyone believed in him: not as a middling student, not as a dancer, a reporter, even as a member of the Society of the Blind Eye (not that he could remember that experience, anyway). He was always the joke, the guy with a cinder block camera and a turkey baster microphone, the cheap hat that he may or may not have stolen off a department store mannequin. Even when he rocked an awesome mohawk and battled Time Demons as Bodacious T, people laughed at him.

That had been six years ago, during the summer the town had forgotten by decree and universal consent. It was June 2019, and he was the only person in Gravity Falls who cared about the burglary. Perhaps because he had seen it unfold.

One evening, he returned from a late night coffee at Greasy's Diner, scrawling notes on a story about the latest Gnome sightings near the local gas station. (What use gnomes had for gasoline was anyone's guess; they never stuck around to be interviewed.) As he walked past the Museum, a squat brick building with forbidding marble columns out front, he spotted a shadowy figure sneaking out the front door with a dark bag.

Toby inched as close as he dared, trying to gain a glimpse of the man. He was tall, his head shaved bald, impeccably dressed in a blue-gray suit. There goes the possibility that he was a janitor or a maintenance guy; why would one of them wear such a snazzy outfit? Yet he didn't seem like a run-of-the-mill criminal either; for one, the Museum of History likely didn't have anything more valuable than some candy sticks, pop guns and a few twenties in the cash register. And certainly he was the most well-heeled burglar Toby had ever seen.

Toby had called the police, and the found the office slightly askew but nothing obviously missing. They wrote it off as a prank or an amateur and refused to listen to Toby's demands that it portended something more serious.

Toby, nonetheless, decided that he had to find the truth. Even if everyone in town laughed at him.

His preliminary investigation achieved little. He visited the Museum of History during its visiting hours, perused the collections of documents and historical displays he'd glanced more times than he could count. He didn't know much more about history than he needed for his annual story on the town's Pioneer Days. Perhaps the research clerk, a lanky twenty-something named Charles Huston, could help.

"Young man, do you work here?" he asked.

"Sure do! Can I help you?" Charles asked with a smile.

"Have you noticed whether any files have gone missing from your collection lately?"

The smile disappeared from Charles' face. "My God, there are always files missing," he moaned, throwing up his hands. "Somebody will come in, make a copy and forget to return the original. Somebody throws away a birth record without realizing what it is. Somebody takes the cemetery list you spend weeks working on and spits their gum into it. All kinds of stuff."

Toby decided the cranky clerk wouldn't be much help. He asked Charles' boss, a cheery middle-aged woman named Mary, to provide a catalog of library files. He took it back to the library and compared the list to the files at hand. After about an hour of searching, he found eight file folders were missing and jotted them down, then did a bit more research, hoping he'd find something more helpful. After awhile, he dragged himself back to his office.

Toby snacked on half an egg salad sandwich and some cold store brand coffee, his notes spread across his desk. He spent the next several hours trying to make sense of everything he'd gathered together.

"Eight folders missing," he muttered out loud, rubbing his eyes as he looked at the clock. Half past ten. His stomach growled, his eyes sagged, his arms shrugged from weariness. He hadn't found anything and started to wonder, despite himself, whether everyone was right about him...

"Which files are missing?" he muttered. "Adams family file...?" He knew Jack Adams, who had been the town attorney for a brief period of time, but had joined a law practice in Salem a few years ago. He doubted there was anything interesting there.

"Barbecue missing..." A larcenous chef? The thought amused him, but he discarded it as a likely possibility.

"Corduroy...Hmm!" This _did_ raise an eyebrow.

Of course, Toby knew the Corduroys very well: Manly Dan, local lumberjack and hulking town tough, his now-equally hulking sons, and Wendy Corduroy, now 21, who was studying photography at Gravity Falls Community College. He remembered Wendy from their short-lived alliance in the darkest days of Weirdmageddon, where they'd battled past Bill Cipher's demon crew to take refuge in a mall-turned-fort. He remembered the oversized teen girl fondly, but doubted that she had the same thoughts about him.

Either way, it was something. And he made a note to contact Dan or Wendy when the opportunity next presented itself.

Eventually, he found another odd listing: "Labor history - strikes and violence." He struggled to piece together memories of whether there had been any major strikes in town, but nothing came to mind. He did remember, vaguely, from a college course that the local lumberjacks had tried repeatedly to form a union in the early 20th Century, but nothing came of the idea until the mid-30s, when the New Deal made such organizations fashionable. Exactly why was something of a mystery, of interest to labor historians but not to casual researchers or the average Joe - and not, until now, Toby Determined.

Slowly, the gears started turning in Toby's mind, the rush of piecing a story - a mystery - together. But it still didn't make sense to him. What was so important in Gravity Falls' history that they needed to break into a museum to steal it? It didn't make sense. But that only made him more determined to find the truth.

Toby was enough of a reporter that he still experienced hunches. After finishing up at the office, he briefly debate whether to sneak into Greasy's for a quick bite - his egg salad having curdled into slime, his coffee long gone - he decided to revisit the Museum of History, wondering if - hoping that - the perpetrator might return to the scene of the crime. At the very least, maybe he could find some clue that he'd missed during the day.

Toby approached the Museum, then noticed something suspicious: the door was shut, but there was a piece of tape on the lock. He leaned forward and squeezed the knob, which opened. Toby took a deep breath, regretting that he'd left his .38 back at the office, wondering whether someone absurd enough to break into a history museum would be dangerous or merely a crank.

He tiptoed into the museum, past the familiar exhibits of miners and covered wagons and the horrors of dysentery. There were a few dim footlights on, a sign that someone was here. Maybe it was just a security guard? But then why would they have fidgeted with the lock?

Finally he made his way back to the research library, noticing that the door was wide open. He heard metallic clicking noises inside, the rustle of pipers. Toby crept down the hallway, his heart in his throat, and slowly peered around the door...

He saw that all the room's filing cabinets jimmied open, a few files and boxes of materials piled up on the floor, with surprising, almost anal retentive orderliness. In the dim light he saw the silhouette of a man examining a small box, then placing it into a bag. He squinted through the darkness, struggling to make the figure out...

"YAH!" Toby tripped over his own feet and hit his head off the doorknob. He groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Oh, marbles!"

"Who the hell are you?" the man in the room barked. He looked up and saw, looming over him, the man he'd seen the other night: wearing the same blue-gray suit, the bald head and imposing black mustache. This time he noticed his steely blue eyes, boring into him.

Toby staggered to his feet, trembling. He decided there wasn't anything to lose...might as well bluff him.

"I was about to ask **you** the same question!" he said, in what he imagined was an authoritative voice. But his voice and body quavered, betraying his insecurity. The bald man just smiled.

"Are you affiliated with the Museum?" he said, placing the bag on the ground. "I can assure you, this isn't what it looks like."

"I am indeed a member of the Board of Directors!" Toby said, trying to contain his abject terror. (Well, he had donated $60 several years ago and become an honorary member of the Museum, so it was only a lie in the strictest sense.) "And I demand to know who you are and what you're doing here."

"Neither of those are important," he said. The evenness of his voice belied his menace. "Or at least it's not important that you know. This is something much bigger than either you or I, and it's important that you trust me in saying that."

Toby's mind raced with ideas. Had he uncovered some dread government or corporate experiment? If so, to cover up what? Things that had happened a century ago in a hick town somewhere in Oregon?

"I'm of a mind to call the police!" Toby squawked. The bald man simply shook his head.

"That wouldn't do either of us any good," he said. He took a step towards Toby, who stumbled back into the hallway. The man started to reach into his suit pocket...

"Hold it right there, baldy!" someone snapped. Toby looked and saw, to his relief, Sheriff Blubbs and Deputy Durland with guns drawn.

"Put your hands where I can see them!" Blubbs said. Surprised, the bald man raised his hands slowly over his head.

"If you'd let me explain..." he began.

"There's plenty of time for that later, punk!" Blubbs interrupted, with more authority in his voice than usual. "You're under arrest for breaking and entering."

"DO I GET TO TAZE HIM!?" Durland said, practically quivering with excitement. Blubbs sighed; the moment was ruined.

"We'll see, buddy," the Sheriff said, patting his Deputy on the shoulder. "Right now, we need to make an arrest."

"Yeah, but you don't look like the ones who can do it," the bald man intoned.

Before anyone could move, he snapped out a strange-looking device, a black rod with two electrodes at the end. It fired two propulsive charges into the policemen, sending them writhing to the ground in agony before they passed out.

Toby screamed as the bald man moved in, trying to recharge his gun.

"And they said to turn myself in if the Police caught me," he growled. "Everything would be sorted out. Well, there are men I'd take a bullet for, but my current client isn't one of them." He loomed over the hapless reporter, who leaned back. "I have another solution?"

Toby closed his eyes, waiting for the electric shock to hit him. The one time I'm right about something, it has to be tonight. What good would it do him if he was dead?

"Oh, marbles!"

A volt and a flash and a scream. The footlights in the museum dimmed, then went out.


	2. Chapter 1

Right now, Mabel Pines was too concerned about her brother to worry about mysteries.

"Come on, Dipper! We're almost there!" she said, bouncing in her bus seat as they saw the WELCOME TO GRAVITY FALLS sign looming in their foreground. Dipper, his face buried in a book, barely acknowledged her.

"Mabel, you aren't twelve any more," he said irritably, scratching his stubbly face. "You shake the whole bus when you move."

"Duh, broseph! That's why I do it!" Mabel said, a little too enthusiastically. "Now my excitement is truly proportionate to my strength!"

Dipper forced a laugh while rolling his eyes. "If only it could be more proportionate to your level of maturity," he said.

"My maturity level is exactly where it needs to be," Mabel said, affecting an upper-class-ish accent. "I am a young woman with a future and the world is my oyster." Dipper arched an eyebrow at her stilted, florid language. "Meanwhile, you're just a poop head who's always burying his head in books!"

"Books are the only friends I have these days," he said. Mabel felt a pang of empathy.

"Well, at least we'll be in Gravity Falls soon!" she pointed out. "Plenty of friends there!"

"Yeah, I guess so." Dipper closed his book, staring out the window.

"What are you so upset about, Dip?" Mabel said, trying to penetrate his fog of sadness. "We're in Gravity Falls, the best place in the world!"

"I dunno, Mabel," he sighed. "Something doesn't click about this place any more. You can only battle so many demons and wrestle so many Manotaurs and, you know, unravel so many conspiracies before it gets dull, don't you think?"

"But what about Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford?" she asked. Then added. "And Wendy!"

"Wendy and I were never a thing," Dipper said, "except in my head. Besides, she's dating that dude Graham now at college." He looked over at his twin, whose smile had given way to a thoughtful frown.

"But yeah, I guess it will be cool to see Stan and Ford again," he added half-heartedly. He didn't care so much about his happiness, but still didn't like to see Mabel upset.

"You're making me sad," Mabel said with a pout. "Don't do that! Mwop!" She punched his shoulder.

This would be the Twins' last summer before going off to college. Dipper, of course, was living Grunkle Ford's dream of attending West Coast Tech on a full scholarship. Mabel planned to double major in Modern Art and Drama, with a possible teaching degree. Whatever she'd find more fun to study!

Mabel had the typical feelings about college - she was thrilled about moving on, finally becoming an adult while still being allowed to have fun and freedom for a few more years. Not so much Dipper, who seemed unaccountably upset, depressed even, by the prospect of going off to college. Mabel couldn't figure out why; he hadn't exactly loved high school, had struggled to find friends and should be thrilled to move on.

But he wasn't. And that drove Mabel crazy.

She'd tried to get some answers out of her brother, but he wasn't responsive. Was he worried about going to another state? Was he worried about being separated from her? Was he concerned that he wouldn't live up to his expectations, or that college could only seem miserable after his apprenticeship with Ford and six years of wild paranormal adventures? If so, Mabel couldn't entirely blame him.

Maybe a trip to Gravity Falls was all he needed to cheer him up? So Mabel had hoped in the weeks leading up to their trip. Dipper's life had its ups and downs, but the prospect of returning to Gravity Falls, with its monsters and scientific experiments and Wendy, always brightened his day. Yet he still seemed down in the dumps, even though they were now within sight of their destination.

He had grown tall and gangly, his face bristling with stubble and blackheads, but he still possessing the same blue vest and pine tree hat and shaggy haircut, the same flailing noodle arms and rail-thin physique he'd had as a kid - and the same introverted demeanor. He was now nearly six inches taller than Mabel (so much for her being the Alpha Twin!), who still looked and acted strikingly as she had that first summer in Gravity Falls - a little taller, her teeth a little straighter, her brown hair cut to more manageable shoulder length, but with the same rosy cheeks and boundless energy, infectious cheer and handmade sweaters both tacky and endearing (today she sported a blue one with a pig wielding a paintbrush, in homage to Waddles).

When the twins arrived in Gravity Falls, they found themselves alone, holding their bags without anyone to pick them up. They had expected Grunkle Stan, or Soos, or someone to meet them there. Instead, they stood at a near-empty bus station, looking around, examining their watches, their smartphones, looking for a message, a call, something.

"Late as usual," Dipper grumbled, slapping a mosquito. "Some things never change." He had a point: When had Grunkle Stan ever picked them up on time?

"You're right about that," Mabel said, still trying to cheer up her brother. "And hey, Gravity Falls looks the same," she said with a sweep of her arm. "Same water tower, same trees, same giant lumberjack, same buildings, same..." She looked around for something distinctive to point out... "Um, sky."

"At least there isn't a demonic triangle coming out of it!" Dipper said.

"Or a pterodactyl!" Mabel added, thinking of Waddles. The two twins laughed. Then they spotted Soos pulling up in his van, still looking and acting like an overgrown kid.

"Dudes, you're here!," Soos apologized, hugging them both. "Sorry for the delay. Town's in a mess, roads are blocked off by state troopers. Something weird happened here last night."

"Weird? Like what kind of weird?" Dipper immediately perked up; Soos knew exactly how to get his attention. Mabel noticed this and perked up, too, watching her brother's reaction intently.

"Well, like weird in an unusual sense, not weird in a Gravity Falls, paranormal sort of sense," Soos said. Dipper sank back into his seat, crestfallen.

"Somebody broke into the History Museum and roughed up Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland," the handyman explained. "Like, they both had to go to the hospital. The doctors think they were electrocuted somehow." Then, as an afterthought: "Oh yeah, Toby Determined was there, too."

Mabel grimaced, remember the weird little man she'd grudgingly tolerated so much over the years.

"What on Earth was Toby doing at the Museum?" Dipper wondered, more of passing curiosity than true interest.

"Don't you remember, Dipper? He was a member of the Society of the Blind Eye!" Mabel explained.

"Yeah, *was* a member," Dipper corrected. "The Blind Eye doesn't exist any more." Though he couldn't drive the thought out of his mind...

Nor could Mabel. As they drove to the Mystery Shack, chatting and catching up, Mabel's mind flashed with inspiration. Maybe Dipper didn't need friends or a familiar setting so much as a new mystery to explore. And maybe, with a little help, Mabel could help him find it.

* * *

"So, Preston Northwest is running for Senate?" Dipper asked as he sat down to a late dinner with Stan and Ford. The Pines family crowded around some overcooked brown meat in gravy, some soggy carrots and mushed peas, poking at it with sporks Stan had filched from the new fast food place. "What's all that about?"

"He's made a major effort to rehabilitate himself since Weirdmageddon," Ford said. "Investing in green energy and environmentally-friendly housing, donating to different philanthropies and fundraisers...It's like nobody remembers him selling out to Bill at all. It is peculiar, but maybe he's sincere."

Dipper and Mabel exchanged glances. Though he and Mabel had achieved a rapprochement with Pacifica, neither of them trusted her parents as far as they could throw them.

"Ah, all politicians are cheats and hacks," Stan said, dripping greasy pseudo-meat down his white undershirt. "He fits right in with that crowd."

"Like certain mayoral candidates I could mention?" Dipper said, provoking Mabel's laughter.

Stan uttered a "feh" and waived his hand. "That was different," he said. "I ran so that Bud Gleeful wouldn't get elected, and because I wanted respect." He spit out what looked like a bone or possibly a shard of metal, examining it absently. "See, at least I don't pretend I had The People in mind, no matter what you kids tried to get me to say with that blasted tie."

"That is the kind of knee-jerk cynicism that elevates lowlifes into office," Ford said pompously. "If you think there's no difference between candidates..."

"I haven't given a damn about politics since I was a teenager," Stan continued. "The early '70s weren't the best time to be political in our house..."

"Stanley..." Ford sighed, knowing where this was going, sure the kids wouldn't care to hear it.

"Hey, you were there, Poindexter!" Stan snapped, his voice dripping resentment and venom. "Hearing Dad complain about the blacks moving into the suburbs would somehow end civilization! Or idolizing Spiro Agnew because that felonious schmuck punched hippies with a thesaurus! Cheering on that rat Sandman as he defended Nixon all through Watergate! Is a kid supposed to live through all that and become a starry-eyed patriot? Fat chance."

"Stanley, I agree that Dad had some...interesting opinions during that era," Ford began evenly, as his brother continued to sputter insults, "but come on. You and I both moved on and became adults, got our own opinions and experiences. Of course, being in the Multiverse for several decades expands one's mind..."

"Yeah, of course you bring that up!" Stan said, crossing his arms.

"Trust me Stan, compared to Bill Cipher or Time Baby, Spiro Agnew and Charles Sandman were positively upstanding!"

Mabel looked puzzled, and slightly annoyed, by her grunkles invoking long-dead congressmen and scandals she'd only heard about in boring history classes. She could tell Dipper, too, wasn't interested either.

"Hey, Earth to old guys!" Mabel said, flailing her arms. "There are some kids here who don't care about all that stuff!"

"Yeah, we're just curious...why would someone like Preston Northwest run for office?" Dipper said.

"There's your mystery!" Stan burst in. "That bastard sold out the town to Cipher and now he's a hero! He's running as an independent candidate too, since he's so much better than the two-party system."

"Could we not talk politics?" Ford said, suddenly angry. Dipper and Mabel were surprised by his vehemence, but Stan just glowered at his brother.

"I'm going to go back to the lab," Ford announced, standing up suddenly. "Dipper, I'll show you what I'm working on after you eat. Mabel, it's been lovely seeing you. Stan."

Stan sighed, throwing down his spork. "Sorry kids. This election has everyone in an uproar around here. I mean, I don't care about politics, as I've been saying, but since Northwest entered the race it's all anyone can talk about."

"Ohh," Mabel sighed. She remembered arguments at her high school during the presidential election two years earlier, how nasty and personal they got - and now she saw adults raging over elections that happened decades ago.

"But enough about professional shysters!" Stan announced cheerfully. "I've been great! Have two new exhibits which were dreamed up by Soos. Shall we go check them out?"

Stan threw on a jacket and led them out into the Mystery Shack's lobby, showing them around the familiar room. "This, my dear guests, is the remarkable Antocelot!" He unveiled a stuffed cat with antlers sprouting from its head, with blotchy spots painted on its back. "Some say it was the product of a genetic experiment, others a genuine freak of nature. I call it an experiment to get rubes money!"

The twins laughed at his hoary patter, which was funny without actually being funny.

"If you were impressed by that mess," Stan said with his usual energy, moving over to a large tarped figure, "here's something that will really knock your socks off!" He pulled off the tarp."

"Behold! The world's largest sock!" It lived up to its billing, solid, glowing white and nearly fifteen feet tall! "Some say it was knitted by giants, others created by space aliens. Some wackos might conclude it was knitted by an employee's wife, but they're quickly escorted out the door for spreading such poppycock."

"It's so big..." Mabel gushed, impressed by the handiwork before her. "Must have taken Melody days to sew it."

Dipper rolled his eyes. Even by Grunkle Stan's standards, this was pretty lame. Of course his sister would appreciate it.

Suddenly there was a flash. Stan cried out and stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes. The twins turned to see a familiar figure, wearing a gray t-shirt and flannel ball cap, red hair tied in a ponytail.

"Jesus, Wendy!" he said. "How did you even get in here?"

"I'm a master of stealth, dudes!" Wendy said, lowering her camera. "Plus, you know, you didn't lock the door."

"Must be getting senile in my old age," Stan grumbled, "knowing how many troublemakers there are in this town."

"Speaking of troublemakers..." Wendy began.

"WENDY WENDY WENDY!" Mabel rushed over, giving her a bear hug. "Oh my gosh, it's been so long! And your hair looks wonderful!"

"Thanks, Mabes," the redhead said. "Like your haircut too, it suits you."

"It's easier to wash, that's for sure," Mabel said, thinking back to many long mornings and excruciating fumbling with shampoo and curlers until she got tired of it.

To Wendy's surprise and disappointment, Dipper stood back, staring at her but unmoving.

"Dude, you gonna leave me hanging?" Wendy said, beckoning him in for a hug. Dipper forced a smile on his face and came forward, giving her a half-hearted embrace.

"What's wrong, man?" Wendy asked. "Usually you're like crawling all over me."

"Sorry I'm not groping you this time," Dipper said. He meant it as a joke, but it came out as a surly grumble.

"I don't mean it like that, Dip," she said, pushing the cap down over his eyes. "I'm just...are you okay?"

Dipper shrugged. "I mean, college has got on my nerves," he said, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"Hey man, if I can handle college, a brain like you will have no problem!" Wendy proclaimed. "It's a lot of work, but so much fun when you get a chance."

"So you're into photography now?" Mabel said, examining Wendy's camera, a Pix Pro Astro Zoom.

"Yep," Wendy said proudly. "Remember last summer how we staked out that Sasquatch and got those sick pictures of it? I showed my photographs to a friend at Community College. He thought they were fake, but he loved the composition and the lighting and all that mess I wasn't exactly trying to capture. Go figure. But I took a class and I've kinda got a knack for it."

"You'll have to show us later!" Mabel said, throwing her hands up in excitement. "Do you have some work?"

"All kinds!" Wendy said. "Nature shots, portraits, action shots for sporting events...Man, I am an ace! Sure beats cutting down logs for a living."

"Why don't we go out for coffee or something?" Mabel asked, clutching Wendy's hands.

"I don't know if I...Well, I guess you kids are old enough to drink coffee now, huh?" Stan said, rubbing the back of his head. "Sure, have fun and don't break anything on your way out."

"You got it, Stan," Wendy said, slightly aggravated that that was her old boss's kneejerk reaction to her being around. "So come on, dudes! Your first adult coffees at Greasy's Diner, on me!"

Mabel was halfway out the door when she realized her twin hadn't moved. "You guys go ahead," he said, the same forced smile as before. "I'm feeling a little tired after the trip. Besides, Ford's going to show me his invention tonight."

"Come on, bro!" Mabel said, pulling on his arm. "We haven't been to Greasy's Diner in, like, ten months! You can see Ford's science-y stuff any time."

But Wendy intervened. "No problem, dude," she said, smiling at her long-time admirer. "We'll catch up later. Meanwhile, Mabel and I can make this a girl's night. What do you say?" She started chanting, "Girls night! Girls night! Girls night!"

Mabel shouted in excitement, and rushed towards the door, then turned back towards Dipper. "Are you sure you don't wanna come, Dipper?" she asked plaintively.

Dipper shook his head. "Nah, you ladies have a nice time," he said, then added: "It's not like I'd be any fun, anyway."

Mabel could hear the pain in his voice; she wanted to intervene, badly, to shake her twin out of his funk, into enjoying the moment. But that hadn't worked at home, it hadn't worked on the bus, and it probably wouldn't work now.

"Bro, you will never not be fun," she said sincerely. "But if you want to stay here tonight, that's fine. You're probably sick of me after ten hours on the bus, anyway!" She added "Boop!" as she flicked his nose.

Dipper chuckled and then, suddenly, gave his sister a warm, sincere sibling hug. Mabel seemed surprised, but accepted it gladly. Then she went out into the night to join Wendy, her thoughts torn between fun and fear.

* * *

"...So that's how we figured out that Gravity Falls High wasn't haunted, just that there was a jerk teacher living there!" The two girls laughed.

"No way!" Mabel gasped.

"Way! His wife had caught him cheating on her with some younger girl and kicked him out of the house," Wendy dished. Mabel made a naughty noise.

"Can you imagine what a miserable life that must be?" she continued. "No friends, living surrounded by chalkboards and desks and, I dunno, CPR dummies? Plus eating cafeteria food every night." She shuddered.

"Hey, you're talking to someone who's survived six years of Stan and Ford's cooking!" Mabel jibed, sipping on a latte.

"So, you're going to double major?" Wendy asked.

"Boy, I hope so!" Mabel said, animated with excitement and pride. "I just have so much art to give the world! I've been acting in plays all through high school, but I still draw and paint and make sweaters! So why not try both? If one doesn't work out, I could fall back on the other, or who knows? Find another major altogether!"

Wendy laughed, admiring the younger girl's enthusiasm and innocent self-regard. If there was anyone who could pull off such a tricky double major, it was Mabel Pines.

"Hey, between you and I we should have the visual arts pretty well-covered!" Wendy said.

"Yes, of course!" Mabel agreed. "You capturing the grim, gritty reality of life -" she lowered her voice to a comic growl - "and I capture its joy and excitement!" Her voice growing higher until it broke into a girlish squeak.

"Well, when you put it like that..." Wendy said.

The two enjoyed their hot coffees amidst the familiar settings, hearing Lazy Susan wrestle with an uncooperative pie rack. They caught up on friends and crushes, hopes and dreams, having such a fun time that they almost forgot about Mabel's mopey twin. Almost.

"So...what's with Dipper?" Wendy asked.

Mabel looked into her coffee, stirring it endlessly, silence hanging in the air. "He's been acting this way for months," she said finally. "I don't know if he's upset about college or something else. Either way..." she sighed, seeming on the verge of tears. "It's awful to see him this way."

Wendy grabbed her hand, trying to cheer up her friend. "Hey, Mabel," she said. "Does he see a doctor?"

Mabel shook her head. "He's very good at hiding it, or at least he was," she said. "The last few days though, he hasn't even been trying."

Wendy's face twisted in concern, puzzling out a solution. Dipper may have been many things in their time together - neurotic, insecure, hopelessly smitten, occasionally even scared - but depressed, hopeless? Never. Dude faced down Weirdmageddon with her, beat the Shapeshifter, did a million other crazy things that would have driven any adolescent insane.

"Maybe he's just in a rut," Wendy suggested. "From what you guys have told me, Piedmont isn't the kind of place that's crawling with mysteries. Maybe we just need to find Dipper a new mystery to unravel."

Mabel gasped. "I was thinking the same thing!"

"Well, why not then?" Wendy said. "Time to get the Mystery Twins back together, man. Or even better, the Mystery Team! I'm sure Soos can join us."

"Really?" Mabel gasped gratefully. "You'd make time to do that?"

"Dude, it's summer! It's either that or go work at my cousin's logging camp. Plus I'd do anything to help you guys out."

Mabel smiled in gratitude. If there was one person who could read her brother as well, if not better, than her, it was Wendy. Whatever she and Dipper said, Mabel knew there was a connection between them - maybe not the romance of Mabel's dreams, but definitely something deeper than mere friendship.

"Great! And I know just the mystery we can unravel..." Mabel began, explaining her plan to use the burglary at the Museum of History as something for Dipper and her - them - to uncover. Wendy was amazed at how detailed Mabel's plans already were, as if she'd spent all day puzzling them out. Maybe she had!

As the two girls plotted, they thought of little more than cheering up Dipper. They didn't realize that they'd uncover a conspiracy that Oregon hadn't seen since its pioneer days.

 **Author's note:** Thanks for everyone who's reading! I appreciate any reviews or constructive criticisms, and I hope you don't mind the occasional historical references.


	3. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Dipper absolutely could not understand his sister. Her endless crushes, her sweaters and love for stickers and pigs, her fascination with pop cultural ephemera, from Sev'ral Timez and &ndra to every musical she and her drama teacher Mrs. Gordon could conjure (my God, how many times had Mabel blared out the scores to Spring Awakening and Hamilton from her room over the past three years!?) - all exasperated and occasionally annoyed him. Yet today seemed strangest of all, because her suggestion was so unlike her.

"Mabel, why on Earth do you want to go to the Museum of History?"

"What better place to solve a mystery?" Mabel said, her voice brimming with her usual enthusiasm. "Remember Quentin Trembley? The Society of the Blind Eye? We never would have unraveled those mysteries without the Museum!"

"True," Dipper conceded. "But when I asked you if you wanted to go last summer, you told me it was a boring place where nerds and losers hung out."

"I was just teasing you, bro!" she said, with a forced chortle that sounded like a choking seal. "Everyone knows the cool kids hang out at the Museum all the time. Even my sweater says so!"

And indeed, her latest sweater included Abraham Lincoln and George Washington high-fiving each other. It was certainly...creative, Dipper would give her that.

"You're laying it on a bit thick, Mabel," Dipper grumbled. "What mystery are we solving, anyway?"

"Well, I thought that we could get to the bottom of that burglary the other night," she said nonchalantly. She showed Dipper the latest issue of the Gravity Falls Gossiper, which read:

 **TOBY DETERMINED TOTALLY TASERED!**

 **ENTERPRISING EDITOR ELECTROCUTED BY EVILDOER!**

 **ALSO, SHERIFF BLUBS AND DEPUTY DURLAND**

"Looks like Toby's bought a new thesaurus," Dipper said as he skimmed the headline.

"What are we waiting for?" Mabel said, grabbing her brother's arm. "Maybe getting the bottom of an actual mystery will snap you out of your funk. And hey, maybe we won't even need your journal."

Dipper pulled back, but considered her words carefully. He knew well that he'd been smothered by a funk of emotions that he couldn't define, couldn't penetrate; uncertainty over the future, mostly, but it felt a lot deeper than that. He didn't seem to have interest in much anything lately...not his classes, not school, not even his friends and family. So maybe solving a mystery in his favorite town with his favorite person was just what the doctor ordered.

"All right, Mabel," he said, smiling slightly. "Let's get to the bottom of this."

Mabel beamed, clutching her hands together in delight. "You mean it!?"

"Of course!" Dipper said. "I declare the Mystery Twins back in action."

He held out a fist towards Mabel, which she eagerly bumped. For the first time in weeks, Dipper felt anticipation jolt through his body.

* * *

The duo entered the Museum of History. Despite the crime recently committed there, the Museum had returned more or less to normal: a small collection of researchers hunched over books and family records, a few tourists staring at the almost-interesting farm exhibits, some interns and librarians hovering around waiting for something to do, or else their shift to end. The only thing out of place was a police line in the microfilm room.

Dipper couldn't help feeling a little excited as he surveyed the scene. He looked over at his sister, who was pretending to be excited by the prospect of doing research all day in a library for his sake, and felt glad. Then he heard a familiar voice across the way.

"Dudes, what's up?"

To his surprise, Dipper saw Wendy sitting at a table, leafing through a book bigger than her head!

"Wendy, what are you doing here?" Dipper asked. "School project?"

"Pssh," Wendy said. "Naw man, history is totally cool." She held up her book for them to see. "I can't get enough of reading about..." She squinted her eyes as she read the seemingly endless title:

"Horticultural Developments Exclusive to Roadkill County, Oregon, 1867-1869 by Robert J. Belcher." She almost fell asleep just reading those words, but kept a smile on her face to encourage her friends.

"See, what could be more exciting than that?" Mabel said.

"Mabel, you've already got me in here, you can drop the act." For a moment, Dipper's crankiness returned. He was all for solving a mystery, but he wasn't in the mood for games.

Mabel frowned and moved over to a book cart. "Well, there are plenty of other books we can check out!" she said. "What about..." She grabbed the tiniest book she could find off the cart...

"A Brief History of Jacobus Stively Gwinett, Being the Inventor Who First Introduced the Woolen Handloom to Central Oregon By Means of...Boy, I can't wait to read this one."

"Fine," Dipper said as he sat down at a table. "You read that, and maybe I'll get around to solving the mystery."

Dipper took out a newspaper clipping and a notepad, getting to work. Mabel frowned; he was in hermit mode, and didn't seem to welcome her help any more. She sighed and walked over to Wendy, putting her head in her hands.

"Well, we got Dipper here," Mabel said, trying to keep her voice optimistic. "But he's still..."

"He's just concentrating," Wendy assured her. "You know how he gets when he fixes on to something. Plus," she said as she opened her impenetrable tome to an engraved illustration, "it's not like trimming hedges into the shape of raccoons is important to what happened here a week ago."

"Maybe not," Mabel said, sighing. She watched her brother work, furiously scribbling onto his notepad. She felt more distant from him than ever, upset thinking that her silliness had driven him away just when she'd seemed to find something that worked.

"Mabel, you're a good sister," Wendy said, patting her on the shoulder. "Trust me, most people wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this unless they had a reason to be here. Think about that."

"I dunno, it's not like I was doing anything super-productive," Mabel sighed, thinking of the Tiger Fist reruns she'd planned to watch with Stan and Soos. She took one last glance over at her brother, then wandered away, thinking.

"Can I help you?"

Mabel looked up and saw a boy a few years older than her at the desk. He wasn't the most attractive person she'd ever met, what with his face covered with shaving cuts and his crewcut brown hair, wearing a wrinkled polo shirt and glasses, but he nonetheless Mabel into her usual spasms of awkwardness.

"Umm, hi! I'm Mabel, and I'd like to explore the History of you!" She laughed at her lame joke, then slapped herself. "D'oh! What I mean to say is...my brother and I are trying to find out what happened here last week."

The boy arched his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah, solving mysteries is kind of our thing," Mabel said with more than a hint of pride. "Back in the day, we used to deal with all kinds of supernatural things, secret societies, triangle demons...I'm sorry, this probably sounds crazy. But it's true."

The boy stood there thoughtfully; Mabel winced, fearing that she'd weirded him out.

"Oh yeah, you're the kids who found the stuff on Quentin Trembley!" he said. "Man, I did a write-up about him for our newsletter a few months ago. What a weird character, declared war on pancakes and marry woodpeckers!"

Mabel laughed, remembering the strange, silly man who'd appointed her a Congresswoman. "Yeah. Wait, you got that published? I could have sworn the Northwests covered that all up!"

"Well, they tried to complain, threatened to sue us," he said, "but our editor Mary let me run the article anyway since I could back it up with documents. The ones you and your brother found! Of course, I had to qualify it..."

"Well yeah, I mean you have to be careful," Mabel said.

"I reached out to Nathaniel Northwest's official biography, Ambrose Stevenson, and he called it poppycock and balderdash," he said. "So we included that quote and I showed how it didn't match up with the 'official record.' Someday I hope to write more about Quentin Trembley. I'm always look for little bits of history that nobody knows about."

Mabel beamed, wondering if he would believe her should she tell him the whole story about the secret film and the peanut brittle and the train trip to DC. For the moment, she decided to hold off

"Also, your sweater is awesome."

Mabel blushed at this. "Thanks. Washington is the best, but Hamilton is my favorite!" She snapped her fingers and struck a pose. "He definitely has the best musical."

"I like Hamilton best of all the Founders," the boy said, "but my favorite president is Teddy Roosevelt." Mabel nodded absently, remembering a little about him from her history classes but not enough to make conversation - though she did like his stance on saving bear cubs.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my name is Charlie, Charlie Huston." He held out his hand and she shook it enthusiastically.

"Mabel, Mabel Pines! Well, I guess you already knew that..."

"Yeah, you did mention..." He kind of trailed off. "So, are you guys friends with Wendy Corduroy?" He gestured to Wendy, who was still pretending to leaf through her book, now looking thoroughly bored.

"Only the BEST friends!" Mabel said. "She's saved our butts more times than I can count."

"Really? She's pretty cool," he agreed. "I have a few classes with her at the Community College. Of course she's into photography and I'm a History major, so..."

As he talked a little bit about himself (not droning exactly, but perhaps not as attentive to Mabel as he might be), Mabel was torn between wondering if this guy - this older guy - was cute or merely nice. She'd been in that predicament many times before, and while Charlie wasn't Dream Boy High material, he seemed nice and non-threatening enough. Still, she had enough problems with her brother's nerdier escapades - could she really have feelings for a History major?

"...Of course, next semester I'm hoping to take a theater course."

This got Mabel's attention. "OH MY GOD!" she exclaimed. "You're into theater!"

"I've done my share of acting," he said smiling. "Not GOOD acting, but being in plays, sure."

"Ha, I did every play Piedmont High School had to offer from 9th grade through graduation!" With the same absorption as Charlie had evinced moments earlier, Mabel listed her roles in high school productions of everything from Footloose to The Fantasticks, neglecting to mention that her acting was mostly limited to singing and dancing in the chorus. She was, however, instrumental in behind-the-scenes stagecraft, from designing sets to making costumes, and that she'd met one of her longer-term boyfriends through one of her plays.

"That's really impressive!" he said, mouth agape. "All I did was a few scenes from A Man for All Seasons. I'm told I can act okay, but I can't sing with a damn, so I was really fortunate with that."

The two continued conversing about theater and their backgrounds and future plans (but mostly theater), so engrossed in the conversation that Mabel almost forgot why she was there in the first place. Almost.

Mabel spied a list on Charlie's desk and looked it over as Charlie described the irony of his playing Sir Thomas More despite being from an Episcopal family. She noticed a list of materials that were missing over the last month; Charlie, or someone, had checked off everything except two or three files.

"What's this here?" Mabel interrupted.

"Oh, those are files that have gone missing," Charlie said. "We were trying to see if anything had been stolen when that guy broke in here...That's what you were investigating, right?" He said in a joking tone, as if not entirely believing Mabel's determination.

"Yeah!" Mabel shouted, not looking up. "Microfilm of the Gravity Falls Herald, 1915-1930?"

"That's a strange one. I'm thinking we just misplaced it, because why would somebody break into a museum to steal an old microfilm file?"

"What's the other file?" Mabel asked absently, looking down the list until she found them herself. One involved labor issues - maybe something, maybe just boring. But then she spotted another one down below, and as she read it her blood ran cold.

Corduroy.

* * *

Across the room, Dipper was absorbed reading and rereading the newspaper clippings he'd brought. The Gravity Falls Gossiper wasn't much, it was written in an absurd way to make Toby Determined looked like a hero who bravely stood up against an armed and dangerous criminal - but what else was there to go on? According to the article (and one he found in the Roadkill County Courier, written by a more professional journalist who lacked cat whiskers) nothing had been stolen, but that Toby and the two policemen had been electrocuted bad enough to require hospitalization made it seem extremely suspicious. It didn't make any sense.

Suddenly he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Mabel running across the library, waving her arms.

"DIPPER! DIPPER! WENDY!" She gestured to her friend to come join them at the table. "Look at this!"

"No shouting!" Charlie said feebly, but he really wasn't interested in pressing the issue. Instead he retreated back behind his desk and cracked open a book.

"What have you got, Mabes?" Wendy asked, surprised. Dipper looked up from his notes.

"The list! The list!" She said incoherently before laying the paper down. "Charlie, the guy at the desk over there, who's super nice and a huge nerd but still maybe a little cute...anyway, he had a list of files that have gone missing and look at this."

They both looked down and goggled in shock. Dipper and Wendy exchanged a glance.

"Dude..." Wendy said, shaking her head. "That is, like...I don't even..."

"Why would someone steal your family file?" Dipper asked. "Did your family make any enemies over the years?"

"I mean...not that I know of." Wendy struggled to think. "Mabel, what other things were missing on that list?"

"Some microfilm from a newspaper, and something about..." She scrolled down. "Labor relations?"

"Labor relations..." Dipper puzzled to think. "Is your dad in any kind of union?"

Wendy shrugged. "I think so, but look at the date, dude. My dad isn't 100 years old. Must have been another Corduroy back along the lines."

Dipper was suddenly struck by something. "Do you know...if your family had any dealings with the Northwests?"

"I mean...everyone who's lived in this town has," she said. "What are you...?" Then she put two and two together.

"The Senate campaign! But why would Preston Northwest care about something that happened a century ago? That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he's just trying to scrub clean his family name?" Dipper guessed. "They went to pretty big lengths to cover up that Quentin Trembley stuff."

"Charlie was just talking about that," Mabel said. "How he had to change an article he was writing because the Northwests objected."

"Well, at least we know one Northwest that...should be friendly," Dipper said slowly.

Wendy looked at him, shook her head as she realized who Dipper meant.

"I know you guys had a thing a few summers ago," Wendy said slowly, "but...she isn't around here much any more. Hardly at all, in fact. I only saw Pacifica at the Pioneer Days event last summer, and maybe once or twice after that. I don't even know if she hangs out with her old friends from school anymore. Plus, she's been campaigning with her dad."

Dipper and Mabel frowned, remembering the friend they'd fought so hard to rescue from her parents, now apparently siding with them. It didn't make sense, but they knew people changed, and not always for the better.

"Well, we have to start somewhere," Dipper said with a hint of his old determination coming back. Mabel and Wendy shared a brief smile as their mutual dork's mind went into action.

The Mystery Trio sat down, contemplating their next move. What could they find out? Should they spend more time trawling the archives? Plunging into newspaper records? Asking Wendy's dad? Soon their excited chattering filled the museum, drowning out the rustle of paperwork and the droning of bored kids begging their parents for candy sticks.

And hiding somewhere in the Museum, watching them, the Bald Man took notice.


	4. Chapter 3

_Hi! Sorry for the long spell without a new chapter: real life's been busy, including a professional writing opportunity! I'll try to get back on a regular schedule soon. Thanks for reading and following, and please feel free to review or send your comments. - AllenbysEyes_

* * *

Dipper began his research in the nerdiest way possible: he asked Ford for help.

Though somewhat chagrined that Dipper wasn't interested in learning about his Pocket Hadron Collider, Ford gave Dipper a multi-volume history of Gravity Falls he just happened to have lying around his library. "This was written by that rare thing: an historian who actually tried to tell the truth, not an authorized historian who only tells everyone what rich people want to hear."

"Is there supernatural stuff in there?" Dipper asked, examining the impenetrable volumes.

Ford laughed. "Of course there is, but I'm not sure what you're looking for." He shrugged. "I'm always happy to be proven wrong."

Dipper lugged the books down the hall, as Mabel ran past excitedly in a red-white-and-blue sweater.

"Come on, Dipper! It's time to investigate! Mystery Twins!" She held out her fist, awaiting a bump.

"Sure!" Dipper grunted, straining to hold up the stack of books. "That's what I'm trying to do."

"Books? Boo!" Mabel gave a thumbs down. Then she saw her brother's face contorting into agony, and realized he was on the verge of a hernia. She grabbed three of the books off the top of the stack and they moved them into the bedroom.

"Thanks," Dipper said, before instantly sitting down and pulling back the cover. He coughed as dust from the book sprayed across his face.

Mabel sighed. "Dipper, those books can wait!" she said. "Aren't there ways of investigating Gravity Falls' history that are, you know, less boring?"

"Mabel, sometimes it takes sifting through boring stuff like this to find the answers you need."

"You're such a nerd, Dip-Dop!" she said in despair.

"Says the girl who wants to spend all her time at the Museum of History," Dipper muttered, not looking up.

Mabel started to say something, but she didn't want to admit that at least _part_ of the reason was that she wanted to talk to Charlie again... So she huffed and put her hands on her hips.

"Fine. I'll go out and solve this mystery while you're busy reading about..." She looked at the chapter heading. "The Culinary Applications of Ox Dung? You think reading about poop-eating pioneers is going to solve the mystery of who..."

Dipper interrupted, adopting the authoritative, dismissive tone that Mabel hated so much. "They didn't _eat_ the poop, Mabel, they dried it and used it to cook..."

"LA LA LA!" Mabel shouted. "Have fun with your dung! I've got a mystery to solve." She walked down the stairs, past Stan who was puzzled.

"What's that about dung? Is the toilet backed up again?" Stan asked.

"It's just Dipper doing...Dipper things!" Mabel said, exasperated. "He can be such a pain."

"Look, if there's dung everywhere I want to know about it," Stan insisted. "I love you kids, but I have my limits..."

She stopped and turned towards Stan. "Grunkle Stan, Dipper's been going through a rough patch lately. I don't know exactly what's wrong, if he's just scared of going to school or what. But he seems depressed, he won't tell me what's wrong, and he barely talks to anyone at school or at home any more. I thought giving him a mystery to solve would help him out, but he's just...hiding in his books."

Mabel looked down, crestfallen. Stan felt a pang of sympathy, put a hand on her shoulder.

"That's just who Dipper is, kiddo," Stan said. "Ever since you guys first got here six years ago, he always had his nose buried in a book, whether it was that journal or those manga (which he pronounced _man-ja_ , to Mabel's bafflement) thingmagipsers or, I dunno, novels. Now, I'm no nerd, as Ford always finds a way to point out, and if I had to read, I'd rather read Gold Chains for Old Men Magazine or Robert Ludlum's trashiest airport novel than some Encyclopedia Dorkianica put together by a loser with too many brain cells and too much time on his hands..."

Mabel couldn't help but laugh.

"...But, I mean, he has his way of working and you have your way. Maybe you can do...whatever it is you do to solve mysteries. Then meet him in the middle."

"We never **needed** to work separately before," Mabel pouted. Which wasn't strictly true, as both of them knew, but she couldn't think of a better way to phrase it. "I don't know why he can't..."

Stan felt sad for his niece, angry at his nephew, felt like he wanted to slap some sense into Dipper. But he restrained himself.

"Trust me, Mabel: as someone who's dealt with an obnoxious, know-it-all twin since Leave It To Beaver was a thing, there's only one way you can snap him out of it. And that's beating him! Dipper won't Now get out there and solve a mystery, Mabel-style!"

Mabel beamed. "Thanks, Grunkle Stan!" She hugged him and rushed out the door.

As she mounted her bike, Mabel's mind raced. On the one hand, she was worried that Dipper was retreating into isolation again, like he'd been doing. On the other hand, maybe Grunkle Stan was right. Maybe all Mabel needed to do was get Dipper started on his own while she did her part.

And fortunately, she knew someone who might help her out.

* * *

Wendy, meanwhile, had her hands full with Toby Determined.

Oh, the weird little reporter, seemingly recovered from his encounter with a was happy to cooperate He had stashed some files away in his office, based on his own research. "I keep a safe that can withstand a nuclear blast!" he boasted, before forgetting the combination. "Oh, marbles."

Wendy sighed as the weird man fidgeted with the lock. "Now, what is Shaundra Jimenez's social security number again?" He muttered. "I always forget."

"Dude, why would you even _know_ that!?" Wendy was genuinely disgusted at the weird little reporter.

"We used to work together," Toby grunted, answering nothing. Wendy really didn't want to probe further, waiting until he gave up and started smacking the metal box.

"Youch!"

Wendy groaned and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small pick and jimmied the lock open. Toby seemed bewildered and handed her several sheets of paper, smeared with sloppy writing, pencil dust and what looked like (she hoped?) was a chocolate stain.

"Thanks, man," she murmured, struggling to decipher his handwriting amidst the mess.

"Be sure to give those back," Toby said. "I didn't make copies, because I don't want anyone else to see them. This could be the scoop of the century!"

 _Keep telling yourself that_ , Wendy thought as she exited the office. Though as big a creep as Toby was, he was the only adult in town who seemed to care.

As Wendy walked down the street, she glanced at the notes and...didn't see much more than what she already knew. Except something that Toby had written under the Corduroy file; something about a man named Richard Ephraim Corduroy who, apparently, had died in 1919. Wendy had never heard the name, but then her dad didn't talk much about their family tree. Maybe it was time to ask some questions.

"Watch it! Oh, hey Wendy!" Wendy looked up and saw - Graham?

Yeah, it was her boyfriend all right. Like Robbie, was tall and thin as a string bean (Wendy had to admit she had a type). Unlike Robby, he had sandy-blond hair, a face devoid of acne or eyeliner, a red golf shirt - he looked like a prep with a hint of nerd mixed in.

"Hey, are we still on for dinner tonight?" Graham asked. "We need to discuss our semester project."

"Dude, no we don't," Wendy said. "It's summer. I'm not taking courses this semester, because I'm not as lame as you are."

Graham laughed. "You got me there, Wendy. Of course, I could use someone with your photographic skills to help with something I'm working on."

"Oh, yeah?" she asked. Right now she had other things on her mind.

"Hey, if you want to get dinner, we can talk about it then," he said, insistent and insecure. "We can even go to The Club. I got my paycheck from my weekend job today."

"Sweet!" Wendy said. She couldn't say no to a restaurant fancier than Lazy Susan's house of plaque. "I'll have to find something fancier than this biz, though..." She said, gesturing towards her trademark flannel outfit.

"Awesome!" He leaned forward and kissed Wendy on the cheek. "See you later!"

Wendy shook her head, then stuffed the papers into her bag.

* * *

Every time Mabel talked to Charlie Huston, History got a little more interesting.

It wasn't, Mabel decided, that he was any less of a nerd than her brother. It wasn't that the material necessarily piqued Mabel's interest. But he always found a way to make it interesting. Maybe it was his experience as an actor. Or maybe, Mabel wondered, she and he were, in some way, kindred spirits - passionate about weird things that few people really about, unable to avoid sharing it with the world.

Yesterday, for instance, he had enthralled her with a story about a pioneer theater company. Mabel was a sucker for anything related to arts and entertainment, and she laughed at how loggers and miners would wear woolen wigs and sweat near to death in the sun as they tried to remember lines from Shakespeare. "Imagine performing Hamilton in an oven," he said, deliberately invoking her favorite musical.

Today he was describing an article he was in the middle of researching. It was the 100th anniversary of World War I, and Charlie wanted to find if anyone from Gravity Falls served.

"Turns out that yeah, about 100 guys from Gravity Falls signed up with the 41st Infantry Division and went overseas to France. Doesn't look like many of them saw combat, though a few survived being torpedoed by a German U-Boat on the way to France."

Mabel didn't know much about World War I besides trenches and some guy named Archie Duke shooting an ostrich. She did, however, remember an odd bit of local lore that lodged itself in her cranium.

"Wait, didn't Mayor Befufftlefumpter start World War I?" she said. Noticing his puzzlement, she backtracked: "I remember hearing that years ago. No way it could be true, though, right?"

"Kind of a weird town joke, I guess," Charlie said. "His dad was a German immigrant and they always accused him of being a spy for the Kaiser. Of course, the late Mayor would have been like four years old at the time."

"Man, you wanna talk _weird_..." Mabel began, then held back for a moment. She didn't know how much Charlie knew about the town's multitudinous secrets, or how much she should try to tell him. Maybe once they got to know each other better.

"Well, I found a few names that looked familiar," Charlie said, looking for a peace of paper. "Everyone from Mayor Cutebiker to Lazy Susan had ancestors sign up for the Army. Quite a lot of people for such a small town. Everyone except for the Northwests, it looks like." He added, with a smirk: "Which shouldn't surprise _anyone_."

Mabel nodded along, then something struck her.

"How about Corduroys?"

* * *

"Yep, your great-grandfather was in World War I, alright!" Manly Dan told Wendy, offering her a beer. He was pleasantly surprised that his daughter, suddenly, had taken an interest in their family background.

"He was on a ship called the Tuscania, which was torpedoed by a submarine in February 1918. He managed to drag two of his crew mates onto a lifeboat with his teeth. His **teeth** , Wendy Girl!"

"That's badass!" Wendy said, taking a sip of her beer.

"Always was proud of him. There's a story of him punching out an entire German machine gun nest with his bare fists, too. That kinda stuff doesn't make it into the official record unless it's a rich guy or they win medals. Anyway, we probably got most of our toughness from him."

"No doubt!" Wendy leaned forward like a kid listening to a campfire story. She knew her family was tough, but an ancestor who was a war hero too? This was intense. Graham could wait.

"So what happened to him? Did he die in combat?"

Manly Dan shook his head. "No one really knows. He came back from the war, because I have a picture of him from December 1918." He stood up and went to his room, returning with a small file.

Wendy examined a faded sepia photo of Corporal Richard Corduroy, the spitting image of Dan except he was clean-shaven and wearing a doughboy uniform. He was a good foot taller than the two other scrawny-looking soldiers on either side of them, one of which bore a striking resemblance to Deputy Durland.

"Yeah, so he came back," Wendy murmured. "Then what happened?"

Manly Dan shrugged. "Dunno, Wendy Girl. Mom always said he died right after he came back, but I don't know how or where."

Wendy rattled her brain for memories of history class. "Wasn't there, like, a big flu epidemic right after the war ended? Maybe that killed him."

"Could be," Dan said. "'Course, I figured that a tree fell on him or something. Or maybe a bear," he said, warming to the idea of him dying the manliest of fates.

"It takes a lot more than a tree and a bear to bring down a Corduroy," Wendy said, ribbing him.

"Damn straight," Dan said, punching a table so hard it jumped off the floor.

* * *

Back at the Shack, Dipper's eyes and mind grew weary. He'd managed to speed read through the first two volumes of Gravity Falls history. To his disappointment, it was a lot more...official than he thought. The same BS about Nathaniel Northwest, noble town founder, that he and Mabel he debunked all those summers ago. The same potted stories of pioneer life that inform museum exhibits and bore everyone else. Not even a glancing mention of Quentin Trembley!

What was Ford thinking when he gave me these books? Dipper thought. Is he mad that I'm not helping him with his latest invention?

As he skimmed through bits of Indian lore and town businessmen, he thought about Mabel. He wondered whether he was being too harsh to her, doing too much to push her away. He remembered how excited she'd been to go out and explore with him earlier that day, how he'd brushed her off, and now he agonized over it. This pattern kept repeating itself.

He didn't want to push Mabel away, but he didn't want her to absorb his own misery. West Coast Tech and adult life beckoned within arm's reach. They would have to go their separate ways, at least for a little while; even the Mystery Twins couldn't be joined at the hip forever. And Dipper really didn't know how to deal with it, yet. He didn't like change, never had. He just did a better job of hiding that anxiety than his sister did. Or at least, it was less obvious when he tended to freak out about _everything_.

Maybe, subconsciously, he was preparing himself for it by distancing himself from his sister? That **did** seem like something Dipper's labyrinthine mind would do without him knowing it. Or maybe, he thought, once I find something in these books, it will pay off.

If only these books weren't so tedious, so airbrushed and so...blech.

Dipper's mind snapped out of its self-flagellation when he saw a buried reference to a strikingly uncouth incident. A footnote near the end of Volume Two, after a typically dry passage about which types of wood make the best paper, provided an oasis of inspiration:

"There were attempts to unionize loggers in Gravity Falls, but they invariably failed because of indifference and, occasionally, pressure from local business interests. On multiple occasions, such unionization met with violence from strikebreakers, police and even force. One particular incident, the March 1919 murders of six miners, is detailed in Volume Four, p. 77ff."

It took Dipper a moment to piece together the importance of this information. He remembered the time frame of the missing newspaper files...that correlated, right? And loggers...the Corduroys were loggers. Always had been, Wendy had said.

With sudden excitement, Dipper grabbed Volume IV. He opened it, flipped madly through the pages, looking, looking for the page indicated. Finally, he reached it and -

The page was ripped out.


	5. Chapter 4: 1918

_First flashback. Warning: this chapter contains some descriptions of war violence._

December 11th, 1918

* * *

Sergeant Richard Corduroy looked out the train window, taking in the familiar view of his hometown. The water tower, the rough-hewn houses and shops, the dusty street, all surrounded by dense forest and forbidding, shadowy mountains, dusted with snow. After months of wading through mud and staring at barbed wire and craters, it was the most beautiful sight he could imagine.

Like most Corduroy men, he looked more like a redheaded bear than a man, tall and stocky, muscled and bearded, someone you could instantly peg as the toughest guy you've ever met. He towered over his two traveling companions, a scrawny private named Dix Durland and a beefy, mustachioed corporal, John Cox. All three were silent, Durland with an excited grin on his face, Cox listlessly tapping his feet.

Corduroy still wore his khaki uniform and boots, his doughboy hat awkwardly perched in his lap - he couldn't stand the damn thing and never wore it unless he was on parade. With equal reluctance did he sport his small array of ribbons: a Distinguished Service Cross, pinned to his breast by General Pershing himself, a Croix de guerre courtesy of Marshal Foch and a Purple Heart, the only one he especially cared about, perhaps because his comrades had it, too. He had a single bag of luggage with him, perched by his feet.

He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. He hadn't wanted to fight, any more than anyone else. What the Hell did America care what France and Germany and England did in a mud patch across the world? But when the President declared war, he and his friends were among the first to enlist. Yet never did the thought retreat from his mind, not through training in North Carolina or the rough passage across the Atlantic, not in England where he trained with an Enfield nor in France where he cursed the useless Lebel Rifle, not on the Marne where he earned those chevrons and ribbons, that he wanted the whole thing to be _over with_ so he could return home. Home to his job, home to his family and friends, home to his favorite rocking chair and bar and Gravity Falls.

And Becky...if she would still have him.

He smiled, wondering if maybe his heroism might have an upside, after all.

* * *

About two hundred people gathered around the train platform, waving small American flags, breathing in and out. Women and children wearing their Sunday best. Gray-bearded veterans of the Civil War and the conflict with Spain, many hobbled on crutches or slumped in wheelchairs. Other veterans of this war in khaki, one missing an eye, another a leg, standing at attention. The town constable, Rick Moran, several local businessmen and Mayor Jacobson, nervously scratching his walrus mustache. There was also a tall, thin young man with black hair, holding a beautiful girl with auburn hair close to him.

As the train pulled into the station, the school band struck up "Over There" and the crowd started to cheer. The train blew smoke as it lurched into the station, the wheels and breaks shrieking. After a moment, they watched Gravity Falls' three greatest heroes exit the car, and gave a resounding hip-hip-hoorah!

Private Durland plunged into the crowd and accepted handshakes and hugs, even a kiss from the old lady from the general store. It was the happiest day of his life. Corporal Cox was more reluctant, nodding and waving in acknowledgment but keeping his head down as he tried to move away.

"Come on, John," Rick Corduory boomed, forcing a smile on his face. "If I've gotta suffer through this, so do you."

"Would you look at Dix," Cox said as their friend chatted to a group of admiring young women. "He's taking right kindly to this hero stuff."

"Well, someone has to," Rick said grimly. He waved and scanned the crowd for a familiar face.

Before he could speak, a lanky young man with red hair stepped forward and hugged Rick.

"Rick! Or should I say, Sergeant Corduroy!" The youngster, still young with freckled face, gave a mock salute. "My God, it's good to see you!"

"Likewise, Duke!" Rick said, shaking his hand. "How is Dorothy doing?"

"Dorothy is doing just fine," a female voice called. He turned and saw his sister, a year older and just as tall, though with blonde hair and green eyes inherited from her mother. Rick gave her a bone-crushing hug as she stepped forward.

"My God, you've gotten almost as big as me since I've been away!" Rick said, examining his sister.

"And you look like a dang hero in that uniform!" she said, eyeing his medals.

"Everyone keeps telling me that," he grunts. "I don't want that to matter for a moment. I'm a Corduroy now, dammit."

"Nonsense!" Duke said. "My God, the way you'd hear people talk around here you're Oregon's own Sergeant York."

"Sergeant York is a sissy compared to our brother," Emily said, draping her arm around Rick's shoulder. Rick smiled; tired as he was of praise he didn't think he earned, he didn't mind hearing it as much from his siblings. The three of them hugged again for a long moment, until someone tapped Rick on his arm.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Corduroy?" a scrawny young man in a gray shirt stepped forward.

"None of that, Lou," Rick snapped. "I'm still Rick to you, and everyone else here. Except maybe those swells over there," he said, gesturing with his thumb.

"Right, Rick, sorry," the newsman said. "Is it alright if I get a photograph of you fellas? Just the three of you, before you get eaten alive by the crowd?"

"It's perfectly all right with me," Rick said, shooing his family away. He gestured towards Cox, who nodded as he stepped over. Durland was still mingling with the crowd, until Duke grabbed him and pulled him away.

"My God Rick, a dozen kisses from a dozen girls!" he said, blushing and rubbing his cheek.

"That's more girls than have ever spoken to you in your life," Cox snapped. It was a joke, but delivered without humor.

"All right, lads, knock it off," Rick barked. "Mr. Determined here insists that we do our duty as-" the word caught in his throat "-heroes and pose for a photograph. Let's show Oregon how the men of Gravity Falls carry themselves."

Rick stood in the middle, with his barrel chest sticking out, holding his hat at stomach-level. Durland stood straight as a ramrod, struggling to keep his trademark grin from infiltrating his face. Cox hunched over, his eyes peering out from under the brim of the hat. They waited impatiently as Lou Determined struggled to set up his camera, trying to get the three men together with the station's American flag billowing behind them.

As they stood, Rick's glance caught the woman in auburn hair standing at the far end of the platform. She wore a lavender dress, and her face crinkled into a nervous smile. Becky. But he couldn't help noticing that she seemed - sad, nervous, drained. Why?

Then Rick saw why - the man beside her, tall and thin as a string bean. Rick was unsettled instantly by his piercing blue eyes and the smile, a hungry, menacing grimace which reminded him of a hyena he'd seen in a Paris zoo.

The camera flashed.

* * *

The rest of the day was a blur. More handshakes, more pictures, a pompous speech from the Mayor, who gave Rick a key to the city (a pointless formality, he thought; most of the town were friends). Then off to the bar with Cox and Durland and two dozen lost friends for hard cider, stories about life in town and experiences in France, possibly an arm-wrestling match or friendly fisticuffs. Then Rick did what he'd wanted to do for twenty months: go home, shed his uniform, fall asleep in his rocking chair.

He woke up hours later, long after the sun went down. Dorothy gave him a cup of coffee, which he cradled delicately in his huge hands. Duke sat in a chair across the way, smiling.

"My God, all this feels good after almost two years," Rick said, chair cracking as he stretched.

"No chairs in Paree?" Duke mocked.

"None fit to sit in," Rick said, sipping Dorothy's coffee. "All quilted and cushioned and what-not. Too plush and refined for a Yank like me."

"My God, Dorothy," he said, rasping his tongue. "This is even stronger than Dad's."

"It should be! There's not a jot of anything but coffee in it," his sister replied. "We've been short on sugar in this town for last six months. Rationing, you know."

"Bah," Rick said, struggling to keep it down. "I didn't punch the Kaiser in the goddamned face so that you all could drink hot mud."

"At least it'll wake you up," Dorothy scoffed, feigning hurt. Then she went over to the kitchen and started carving a loaf of bread.

"Or kill me," Rick muttered, putting his cup down on an end table.

Having established the decline of American coffee, Rick pressed his siblings for family updates. Duke was still in school, was reading The Red Badge of Courage and Great Expectations. (Rick couldn't help feeling envious of his brother; his schooling had stopped when he was 12, when he had to take their ailing father's place at work.) Dorothy was doing her best to keep the Corduroy household going, their mother having died in July of the previous year. She had broken off her engagement with Tom Scott, a local dry goods merchant, feeling that her brothers came first.

"Maybe I'll match you with Durland instead," Rick joked. Dorothy looked at him as if he'd suggested marrying a skunk.

Rick noticed his brother fidgeting nervously in a chair, biting his lip, like he desperately wanted to say something. Rick took another drink of nigh-unpalatable coffee, then fixed him a glare.

Then, Duke blurted out: "Is it true what the newspapers say? You know, about what you did in France?"

Rick sighed audibly; he knew this question was coming, had heard it a million times before, but he didn't want to hear from his kid brother.

"Some of it," he muttered cryptically. Dorothy shot her younger brother a scornful look, but he couldn't help blathering on.

"I mean, they made it sound like you won the whole war by yourself!" Duke enthused. "Punching your way through a whole Hun machine gun nest! Liberating the Marne! Distinguished Service Cross and everything! It sounds like a jimmy of a story."

Rick slammed his fist on the table and shot Duke an angry glare. His brother shrank back meekly, cringing like a mouse. Rick felt a stab of remorse, then lowered his head as he gathered his thoughts. He wasn't much for words, but he felt something needed to be said.

"All right, Duke," he began. "You guys have a right to know what really happened, being kin and all. Better you hear the true story than believing the horse manure you read in the press. So pay attention, because this is the only time you're going to hear me talk about it."

He took a long sip of coffee before starting. The brown, bitter liquid seemed to clear his thoughts.

"Our platoon went into action on July 17th. There was a Pennsylvania Guard unit stationed in front of us, and they were overrun during the German offensive. We were marching to the front line, across a wheat field just outside a little farm town, can't remember the name. Anyway, we were halfway across the field when two German machine guns opened up in front of us. I saw Lieutenant Davenport, our C.O. - a nice guy, he was a farmer from Idaho, who knows how he ended up with us Oregon boys...But anyway, he caught a burst in his chest and died straight away. Our senior Sergeant, a man named Cartwright, tried to lead us out of the field but he was shot, too.

"Those of us who were still alive hit the ground. I dropped my rifle, couldn't move, heard the guns firing every time some sucker tried to make a break for it. I pressed into the dirt, wheat stalks poking into my eyes and my face. Part of me wondered if I'd be worm food, if my body might at least make some use fertilizing the field. I was scared. Yes, Duke, your brother was scared out of his mind."

He took another sip, trying to ignore Duke's rapt stare. Dorothy wasn't looking at him, but she'd stopped cutting the bread.

"Then I saw a young man named Tench Brown. Wasn't much older than you. He was from Salem, I think, an accountant, had glasses. He was an educated kid, he talked real good, kept a journal, helped me write a couple of the letters I sent you. Didn't like him much, but respected him. He worked hard to pull his weight, really wanted to prove himself as a soldier. I caught his glare as we were both laying down. He was on his back, trembling, holding a rifle to his chest. Every few seconds he'd raise a hand to face and press his glasses against the bridge of his nose.

"Then we heard two other men from our platoon start to slink away into the brush. He jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle, then got plugged in the chest like Davenport. Fell without making a sound. But the two men got away. And I thought, dammit, if this city boy could save some lives, I should at least give it a shot.

"But I didn't have a rifle. Then I saw Durland lying a few yards away. He'd been hit in the arm, was bleeding bad. But I remember he'd been carrying grenades, and without saying a word I crawled over to him. Durland understood what was happening, fished out the grenades and rolled them over to me.

"He waited until he heard a German voice shout something, jumped up and fired a round. I saw Cox, who was on the edge of the field, firing at them with a pistol. Then the machine guns started again.

"Then I rushed 'em. I don't remember much of what happened, really. I remember hearing the gunshots, hearing screams on all sides of me, knowing any second I was going to eat lead. I don't even remember throwing the grenades. All I know is at the end of it, there were a brace of dead Huns at the edge of the field, their guns wrecked, blood on my chest and fists. Some of it was theirs, some of it was mine. Then I woke up in a field hospital with my legs and shoulders getting bandaged."

Duke swallowed heavily, taking in the story. Dorothy dropped her knife, which clanged on the floor.

"So, I dunno, maybe I was a hero," Rick said, shrugging. "I don't feel like one, because I don't really remember anything about what happened. All I know is that I killed some Huns, saw some of my friends killed, maybe took a bullet or two myself. But that's about all I have to say."

Rick took another sip of coffee. Duke shifted in his seat, torn between pride in his brother, horror at his story, disbelief that something like this could happen to a Corduroy.

"But then, that's nothing compared to what you'll run into on a day in the forest," Rick said. It was a feeble joke, but it managed to lighten the mood enough that everyone snapped out of their stupor. Dorothy gave both of her brothers a piece of bread, then sat down spread-eagle on the floor.

"So, when are you starting back at work?" Duke asked.

"After Christmas," Rick said, devouring his bread like it was the first meal he'd had in weeks. "Mr. Morrison feels like I deserve some kind of hero's holiday. Me, I'd be just fine getting back to work tomorrow. Better back to normal than being bored, I think."

"Money will help, too," Duke said, earning him a glare from Dorothy. "I mean, Dad's pension isn't worth much."

"No, it's not," Rick said. "Me and Cox were talking about that with some guys earlier today. Talk about starting a union among the lumberjacks. It won't go over well with the Northwests."

"Asking the Northwests for help is like drawing blood from a stone," Duke spit. "They're a bunch of rotten bastards. Dylan Northwest is talking about hiring scabs and Pinkertons to make sure there isn't any trouble with workers coming back from the war. And Thad Northwest spent the past few months marching around in his dad's old uniform bullying anyone with a German surname. Thinks he's keeping Gravity Falls safe for democracy or something by kicking Old Man Befufftlefumpter around the street like a dog."

Rick shrugged, licking crumbs off his fingers. "They're rich bastards, always have been. All that matters to them is money and comfort and name. Me, I'm happy to live in this little shack surrounded by animal heads. And you folks, of course."

"Do the animals feel the same way?" Dorothy asked.

"Did you try asking them?" Duke joked.

Rick smiled, trying to keep work and war out of his mind, absorbing the homey surroundings and his appreciative siblings. Then he came around to what had been on _his_ mind the whole time:

"So, what have you heard about Becky Mercer?"


	6. Chapter 5

**June 28th, 2018**

Mabel knew, as an eighteen year old, that she shouldn't be half as excited about Summerween as she was. It was a silly holiday for kids, Dipper said, having lost even the tiny vestige of holiday spirit he'd once possessed. (Though after nearly getting gobbled by Loser Candy, she couldn't _entirely_ blame him for that.) Not to mention their new mystery, which Dipper spent every waking hour of the past few days trying to resolve. Mabel supposed that one was on her.

But dang it, Mabel Pines was still Mabel Pines, and she couldn't let a holiday go to waste! So she spent every waking moment not playing Ms. Serious Detective trying to conjure a suitable sartorial statement for tomorrow's holiday.

"Let's see...I could do a fairy princess, or a fairy horse princess...but that's more of a _fifteen year old's_ outfit. Maybe just a princess?" She scribbled and doodled ideas on her notepad, wishing Waddles were here to help her think. "Maybe the Little Mermaid?" Her eyes went wide, thinking of Mermando, which only made her sad and abandon the idea instantly.

"Dude, you can't dress up like a Disney princess," Wendy said, with a face evincing rat-poison disgust. She rooted around in the closet for something until she found a box of Chipackers. She shook it and realized, to her chagrin, that it was empty.

"Who says?" Mabel said defensively, hiding her dreams from the older girl.

"That's, like, the most played-out topic imaginable," Wendy said. "You're Mabel Pines, you've got all kinds of awesome ideas that _aren't_ stolen from moldy old cartoons."

Mabel hadn't thought about it like that. "What movie are you guys watching tonight?" she asked. "Something terrible, I bet."

"You know it!" Wendy said, sticking some popcorn in the microwave. "It's a zombie movie called The Walking Hunger of the Formerly Living!"

"Sounds icky," Mabel said, tapping her pencil against the notepad. A thought flashed through her mind - _Zombie Princess!_ \- before she decisively rejected it.

"Feel free to join us," Wendy said, her eyes widening as sparks shout of the microwave. "Holy Moly..."

"Well...I could use a break from thinking," Mabel admitted, oblivious as her friend freaks out. "And who knows..."

BZZZAP! The lights in the house went out.

"Well, shit," Wendy said, punctuating the silence.

"All right, which of you runts tried using the microwave?" Stan shouted from the den. They heard footsteps and a crash as Stan stumbled into a shelf. "Dammit!"

"Lot of swearing going on in this house," Mabel said disapprovingly. "And Mabel no like."

"Get off my back, kid," Stan growled. "If there's any extenuating circumstances for a potty mouth, it's Wendy frying the electricity." Another bang and muffled curse word.

The doorbell rang.

"Who could that be?" Stan said.

"Probably the cops coming to arrest you for swearing, Stan," Wendy snarked.

"They'll have to get in line," Stan murmured.

Mabel rushed to the door. "It's probably Soos. He was planning to pick up some snacks and watch the movie with you guys."

"Good, maybe he can fix this-" BANG! "Oh, come on!"

Mabel opened the door, and her face exploded into shocked delight as she saw two familiar faces on their doorstep.

"CANDY! GRENDA!" she shouted, rushing out to greet her best friends with monstrous Mabel hugs.

"HI MABEL!" Grenda boomed.

"I didn't think you guys were in town!" Mabel said, jumping up and down with excitement. This made her night!

"We're only in town for a few days," Candy replied, "but when we saw you were in Gravity Falls we had to stop by."

"We thought a surprise would be more exciting than a text!" Grenda said.

"Oh Grenda, you know me too well!" Mabel squealed.

"So, um, what's going on in there?" Grenda said, squinting into the darkness.

"Wendy blew out the electricity," Mabel said nonchalantly. Stan stumbled past in the background, his legs tangled in a wire.

"Well, if you're not doing anything fun, maybe you could come over to my place," Candy said eagerly.

"We're curious to see what you're doing for Summerween!" Grenda said. "And other things!"

"Hey girls," Dipper said from somewhere in the darkness. "What's with all the shouting?"

"Corduroy, if I broke anything it's coming out of your next paycheck," Stan shouted.

"I don't work for you any more, Stan," Wendy snapped.

"Dipper, is it all right if I go hang out with Candy and Grenda?" Mabel asked.

"Sure. I mean, it doesn't look like the movie's happening any time soon..."

Mabel squealed and grabbed her friends' hands, running off. Moments after the girls left, the lights came back on.

Stan, sprawled in the hallway, looked up to see Ford smirking at the top of the stairs.

"Next time Stanley, maybe you should ask for help before you break something, like your body."

Stan muttered something profane under his breath. Wendy walked past with a bowl filled with popcorn kernels.

"Well, none of these babies popped, but it's the thought that counts?" she said. Dipper looked forlornly at the bowl.

"I mean, it's the _movie_ that counts, right?" he said skeptically.

"Now you're talking," Wendy said. "Plus, I probably have some snacks in my pack."

"Cool," Dipper said, smiling. "Race you upstairs!"

* * *

Wendy hoped that the movie, a chintzy '70s zombie flick whose biggest names were John Saxon (as Dr. Detweiller) and the kid from Laserblast, would be awful, and it didn't disappoint. She and Dipper mocked the stilted dialogue, grotesque make-up and the shuffling gaits of the zombies as they lurched towards their latest meal.

"Come on, Dr. Detweiller, maybe you could put that medical degree to some good use," Dipper shouted at the idiot hero as he stared goggle-eyed at some corpses.

"Can you blame him?" Wendy asked, munching on some trail mix she'd dug out of her backpack. "He isn't even in the same room as the zombies!"

Dipper looked at her quizzically.

"I took a film class last semester, it's called the Kuleshov Effect," Wendy explained. "You do a shot of a guy's face in close-up, then you cut to a shot of something else, and the viewer thinks that he's looking at something. Like, the two scenes could be filmed a year apart on different continents and there'd be no way of knowing."

"That's really cool," Dipper said, impressed that his friend knew something he didn't.

"I mean, no way of knowing if the filmmaker was in any way competent," Wendy said. She pointed and said, "look there - his shirt changed from blue to white."

"What? No way."

"Give me the remote, dude," Wendy said, and she rewound. Sure enough, John Saxon's shirt changed from dark blue to white between two shots.

"What do you call **that** in film school, Professor Corduroy?" Dipper asked, nudging her ribs.

"That is a continuity error," Wendy replied in her most studious voice, "also known as being a brain-dead moron."

"Maybe the zombie ate the _director_ 's brain," Dipper suggested. The two laughed as a zombie sunk its gnarled fangs into Saxon's arm.

* * *

Wendy felt relieved that they slipped so easily back into Burn Unit mode. Soos hadn't been able to make it, since Melody had wanted to take him out to dinner, but she and Dipper were enough to have fun.

Part of it was concern for her friend, for sure; Dipper had been tense and withdrawn, and she'd noticed it as much as Mabel during their time together. He only seemed really clued into the mystery, and even then it was in ways (reading books, taking notes, mumbling to himself) that weren't conducive to teamwork.

But then there was another guy she had bigger problems with: Graham.

Wendy had rotten luck with guys - always had, maybe always would. She always fell for the tall, brooding types that turned out to selfish pricks once she got to know them better. Robbie, though he had his redeeming qualities, was too self-involved and self-impressed for a long-term relationship to work. (Lord knows how Tambry put up with him.) She'd hooked back up with Stony Davidson the year after Weirdmageddon, only to find that he was obsessed with sports and didn't really give a damn about anything that Wendy liked. And there were plenty of others she didn't care to remember.

Graham had seemed different - he was a smart guy, much more intellectual than the guys Wendy usually dated. He wanted to be a writer, had even had an article published in a newspaper back home. That impressed Wendy, as did his friendly, confident demeanor that somehow didn't seem threatening. But the more Wendy got to know him, the more he seemed needy, insecure yet full of himself, like he needed her to validate him more than anything.

And, okay, great. That's what couples do, reinforce and reassure each other. But Wendy was tired of Graham always whining about his latest dream falling apart, his jerk professor who didn't appreciate his last paper, about how _nobody_ understood him (least of all his parents) and that he would be the next Bob Woodward or Shakespeare or Jeffrey Eugenides or whatever writer he was emulating in a given week. It was _exhausting_ , all take and no give. He didn't seem to care about Wendy's photography or _her_ class work or _her_ friends unless they overlapped with his. Worse, he barely even pretended.

Most recently, she'd grabbed lunch with him just yesterday and apologized for missing their dinner. She tried telling him about Richard Corduroy and everything they'd uncovered, but he didn't seem to care. At the earliest opportunity, Graham brought up yet another problem with a professor who didn't appreciate his brilliant essay on Montaigne. Wendy didn't care much for history but she found her dad's tales of battlefield heroics much more interesting than a swollen-headed prat's whining about a French philosopher whose name he couldn't even pronounce.

Just before coming over she'd received a text from him asking to meet for dinner. While Wendy felt bad about blowing him off for her dad's history lesson, she had made plans with Dipper and Mabel even before they'd returned to Gravity Falls. She texted Graham back, apologizing and saying that they would do something Saturday night.

Graham decided to whine, asking "WHY R UR PLANS SO IMPORTANT? I HAVE JOB FOR BOTH OF US. WOULD BE GREAT."

Wendy felt a pang of guilt, but then she realized that Graham was guilt tripping her again. What a dick.

"THESE ARE MY OLDEST FRIENDS DUDE. AGAIN, I'M SORRY, BUT I'M NOT BLOWING THEM OFF."

"FINE, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU" came the response. Wendy wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him.

 _Guys_.

At least with Dipper, she knew where they stood. Part of her had wondered whether Dipper had ever really gotten over her, but at least he didn't act like a lovesick puppy around her any more. She figured Dip had other things going on right now, anyway - not the least a corny zombie movie.

She snapped from her reverie when her phone vibrated. Irritated, she pulled it from her pocket and saw that it came from - who else? - Graham.

"Ignore!" Wendy said out loud, before tossing her phone across the room.

* * *

For once, Dipper was happy, too.

He marveled that he was still friends with Wendy Corduroy, who remained the coolest, most awesome person he'd ever known. That she didn't mind being his friend even though he'd blabbed out his feelings in a moment of panic, that she thought that a dork like him was in any way worthy of her time and attention. Maybe even that she knew that he hadn't _completely_ moved on, that if Wendy offered to run away with him he would drop everything in his life and say yes, but seemed okay with that.

They made a good team, whether as friends or partners or whatever. Since few girls back in Piedmont would even talk to him, someone like Wendy meant the world to him. Friendship was so far from nothing.

But he was growing more and more frustrated with their mystery. At first he'd been interested on an intellectual level, thinking it was something he could solve with some routine intellectual spade work. But there always seemed to be _something_ missing. The page from Ford's book, the Corduroy family file, the newspaper records Charlie Huston had tried finding for Mabel. Most recently, he'd found that the Gravity Falls Public Library had a book on Lumber Unionization in Central Oregon, 1913-1921...and that the copy had been missing for months.

Maybe Dipper was paranoid as usual, but it definitely seemed like someone was going out of their way to hide something from the past - something involving lumberjacks and unionization and Corduroys and probably Northwests. This last piqued his interest, knowing that Preston Northwest was running for political office, and he knew that the man was fully capable of something like this, and that if it involved assaulting two police officers on top of assorted burglaries it must mean a lot.

His only question was why? What on Earth would anyone care about something one hundred years in the past? Preston Northwest was able to cover up Dipper and Mabel's discovery about Nathaniel Northwest with money and a few phone calls. Nobody outside Gravity Falls would know or say anything about Bill Cipher. So what gives?

He numbly took out his phone and searched the contacts list. He still had Pacifica's number in there... and his thoughts flashed back to their brief summer romance a couple of years ago. Or was it really a romance? Who knows, and what did he have to compare it to?

All he knew is that for six weeks, he and Pacifica were inseparable, that they spent time chasing ghosts and tracking monsters and watching movies swimming at the lake and one time, coming perilously close to going further than any sixteen year olds probably should. He'd spent a lot of time puzzling out the whole situation, but decided it was best if he and Pacifica went their separate ways. Yet now, he thought he might need her?

He stared at Pacifica's number for what seemed like an hour, then decided not to press send. It had been several years, it hadn't ended well, she was the daughter of a big-shot politician now and probably didn't have the same phone besides. Maybe he could get up the nerve later on.

He did, however, notice a text from Toby Determined, who inexplicably had his phone number (and he didn't want to know how that gross little man-gnome obtained it in the first place). He read the message:

DIPPER IT'S TOBY. BIG DISCOVERY RE BREAK-IN. NEED TO MEET YOU ASAP.

Dipper briefly considered replying, then looked at the time - 10:38 pm - and decided to turn off his phone. Let Toby stew in his weirdness for an evening. He needed a break from school stress and mystery solving.

Tonight, he would watch zombies eat washed-up B Movie stars with his second-favorite person in the world. And that was so far from nothing.

* * *

Mabel couldn't be happier to reconnect with her old friends.

Candy and Grenda weren't staying long in Gravity Falls this summer. Candy was starting at the University of Oregon in the fall and planning to move there early. Grenda was spending another summer with Marius overseas; the two dated off-and-on for six years, with no sign of stopping. Grenda wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to do after high school, but moving to Europe wasn't entirely out of the question.

They chatted about Mabel things: fashion and magazines, school and boys (though she didn't mention Charlie). Most important, at the moment, to Mabel was that Candy had a load of fabric that her mother had bought for a project she never used.

"Ohmigosh, Candy!" Mabel squeed, examining the threads of different colors and patterns, mind racing with a million possibilities. "This will be great for Summerween tomorrow."

"Wait, you aren't going trick-or-treating, are you?" Grenda asked. Mabel felt a stab of awkwardness. "Because if you are, that's cool, but..."

"No, guys, I'm a bit too old for that," Mabel said, hating every word of that sentence. "Still, it's always fun to dress up!"

"True, you don't need an excuse to be fabulous!" Candy giggled.

Still, Mabel didn't have an idea of what she wanted to make. Until she stumbled across a patch of pink fabric, and remembered her poor porcine friend who had been sick and unable to make the trip from Piedmont...

"Candy, pink fabric! Grenda, scissors! Time to get started!" She thrust out her arms dramatically, waiting for her friends to oblige.

Mabel worked with her usual meticulousness, cutting and sewing and re-purposing until she made just the right pig-sized outfit. When she was in the zone, nothing could penetrate her thoughts, and despite some bad cuts and needle pricks she completed it in record time. No thoughts of Dipper or Wendy or anything but her tribute to Waddles.

She had made her pig costume as simple as possible - pink trim around her head and body, with little hoof gloves and ears and a springy tail made of pipe cleaners. (She didn't think a nose was necessary; face-paint or make-up would work.) "I'll choose an appropriate sweater tomorrow," she announced, modeling her outfit for her friends.

"Mabel, you are a genius!" Grenda announced.

"It is a true work of art!" Candy clapped her hands in delight.

"Aww, thanks ladies! I **am** a bit of a visionary!" Mabel pushed a dimple and beamed childishly, causing all three girls to laugh.

"Grenda, take my picture! No, with my phone." Grenda obliged as Mabel struck several dramatic poses, transforming into the most fashionable pig-girl in all of Oregon.

"This is a scrapbookortunity for the ages!" Mabel announced, crowding the girls together for a selfie. "Our last Summerween together."

Their faces fell collectively as she said that. Mabel waited for the picture to save on her camera, then felt a tinge of sadness overcome her.

* * *

Dipper and Wendy left the TV running after the movie ended, using the opportunity to catch up.

"Dip, I don't see why you're nervous about school," Wendy said. "You're the smartest guy I know."

"That may be true," Dipper said, "but it's a bit more than that. I mean, going to a new school far away from all my friends...from Mabel. It's gonna be hard."

"Dude, this is the age of Skype and Facebook and all that biz," Wendy assured him. "You can stay in touch."

"Yeah, but it's not quite the same," Dipper said, suddenly sinking back into his funk. "I mean, I don't know what kind of mysteries I'd be solving at college, aside from the mystery of what's in the cafeteria food."

Wendy laughed. "I can't speak for West Coast Tech, but the Community College in town here has some pretty good grub. I guess they actually pay their employees or something."

Their chat was interrupted by a news bulletin. Shaundra Jimenez came onto the screen.

"This just in: Channel 84's own Toby Determined has been arrested by Gravity Falls Police in connection with the break-in at the Museum of History two weeks ago."

Dipper's jaw dropped. "What?"

The TV showed B-roll of Toby being dragged off by Blubs and Durland, looking no worse for the wear from their experience. He looked dazed and miserable.

"Once we put two and two together, it seemed obvious," Blubs said authoritatively. "Toby was there and attacked us when we confronted him. Somehow the fool electrocuted himself with whatever weapon he used and tried playing innocent. It worked, until tonight."

"Initial reports were that there was another individual with Toby that night," a reporter asked. "Are you looking for an accomplice?"

"Not at this time," Blubs said. "So far as we're concerned, we got our man." But Dipper couldn't help noticing Durland's expression, somewhat forlorn and disappointed as he lowered Toby into the car.

"Man..." Wendy didn't know what to say. "I mean, I knew he was a weird guy, but he'd fake a burglary and attack two cops to get attention?"

Dipper shook his head. "It doesn't make sense," he insisted. "I mean, whoever was there attacked Toby, too. Do you really think Toby would go to all that trouble for no reason?"

Wendy tried to reconcile it with what she'd learned over the past week or so. It didn't make sense, but then very little Toby did or said made much sense. When she got down to it, there wasn't any reason to suspect anything strange.

"Maybe...I mean, some of those records are really old," she began, not with much conviction. "Maybe someone misplaced them. Maybe the Corduroy file got shredded or lost or something. Maybe Ford lost a page over time. I mean, those things happen. Maybe it's not part of a pattern. Maybe...we've just been seeing what we've wanted to see."

Dipper couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You don't really believe that, do you Wendy?"

Wendy shrugged, crossing her arms. "I don't know, man." She looked at the floor, seeming disappointed at what she was saying. "All I know is that we don't have much to go on except what Toby showed us. And Toby just got dragged off in a cop car."

Dipper turned away from Wendy, upset that she wasn't backing him up. His mouth formed a scowl, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Hey man, there'll be other mysteries," Wendy started, trying to back paddle and to comfort him. "And we found out that I had a total badass in my family tree, so that's cool! At least we know where the Corduroy toughness got its start!"

This didn't mollify her friend. She went to put a hand on Dipper's shoulder, but he pulled away. She felt a twinge of hurt, watching Dipper reach into his pocket for his cell phone.

"Mabel, it's Dipper. Did you see the news? Yeah, Toby's been arrested. Time for an emergency midnight meeting of the Mystery Twins."

The resulting squeal was so loud that Stan could hear it through his earplugs. He rolled over in bed, stuffing a pillow over his head.

"Jeez, those coyotes get louder and shriller every year."


	7. Chapter 6

Sheriff Blubbs wasn't happy to see the Man in Black again. Last time they'd met face-to-face, he and Durland been at the receiving end of an electrocution, and if he never had to see the bastard again it would be all the same to him. Still, in this job he sometimes had to do things he hated - like throw an innocent man in prison to cover for a well-connected heel.

"Should have recognized you from the shine off your scalp," the Sheriff greeted, not bothering to hide his contempt. Durland leaned against the wall, shrinking away from the criminal.

"Well, I'd know that gut anywhere, Blubbs," the Man growled. "Did you get everything from Toby's office?"

"We cleaned out everything we could find," Blubbs said, unveiling it before him. There were Toby's handwritten notes, a few file folders with information on them, a small tape recording he'd made.

"Excellent," the Man said, examining them before putting them in a small satchel. Then a pause.

"Microfilm?"

The Sheriff bristled.

"Where's the microfilm?" the Man asked calmly. "I was under the impression that Mr. Determined possessed a certain roll microfilm from the Museum."

"We took everything we could find," Blubbs said, his voice mustering defiance. Behind him, Durland moved over towards a cabinet, visibly shaking.

"I thought you'd taken the microfilm when you broke in that night," the Deputy murmured.

"It wasn't what I was looking for," he said dismissively, without looking at Durland. He maintained a calm voice, but his eyes shot menace at Blubbs.

"If you don't know, would you mind my having a word with your prisoner?" He started to turn towards the cells.

"I absolutely _would_ mind," Blubbs snapped, stepping in front of him. "I'm not going to have you murder an innocent man to cover your tracks."

The Man nodded. "Fair enough. I'm not keen on killing when I don't have to, Sheriff. Especially not for a client like this. A murder would make things too messy, too complicated even for me to deal with." He reached into his pocket, causing the officers to bristle in fear, then pulled out a manilla envelope.

"Here's your payment, as promised," the Man said, throwing it down on the desk. Neither Blubbs nor Durland moved, nor changed their stare from the Man's hostile gaze.

"May I ask what's worth this much money and this much trouble?" Blubbs asked. "Seems you're doing an awful lot to steal some artifacts and files that you could photocopy for free."

"I'd rather you not ask," the Man said, shaking his head. He tapped the envelope with his finger. "This should be all the answer you'll need."

Blubbs stepped forward. "Now listen here!"

"I don't need to listen to anything," the Man said curtly. "You've already shown that you could be bought, that's all I need to know."

"I think we would have bought the right to know what we're covering up here," Blubbs said defiantly.

The Man grabbed a pencil off the desk and rolled it around in his hand. "Now, I said I don't like to kill, but I'm perfectly capable of it if I have to," he said, musing over the writing instrument. Blubbs puffed his chest out defiantly; Durland practically shrank into the floor, realizing that he'd left his gun in the other room.

"You know, I don't carry a firearm," he continued, not looking at Blubbs. "Once in the past, I learned how to kill someone with a pencil. Maybe it sounds ridiculous, but it's true. You just need to sharpen it to the finest point, then jab it right into the Adam's apple-" he demonstrated on Blubbs - "like so."

He threw the pencil to the desk beside the envelope, his point made.

"Threatening a police officer is an offense, you know," Blubbs said.

The Man smiled. "So is assaulting one," he replied, "and yet here we are." He grabbed his satchel, did a mock bow and walked out of the office.

Before leaving, he looked down the hallway - only two small jail cells. He could hear Toby's heavy, nasal breathing emanating from one of them. It wouldn't be hard, if he had to, to overwhelm or rush past the cops. He decided to case the jail cell as he left, just in case he needed to find a window or alternate means of entry...

Back inside, Blubbs opened up the envelope and sighed, counting the money. "Twelve hundred dollars," he said, showing the bills to Durland. "The things we do for a little extra cash."

"What profit a Man if he gives his soul for the whole world?" Durland quoted with unusual eloquence.

"Well, we have a mortgage on our house, bills, and God knows I could use a vacation," Blubbs said, plopping down in his chair. It creaked as he rocked back and forth, thoughtfully.

"You've always wanted to visit San Francisco, right?" He said, looking up at his partner with a forced smile. "I'd say we earned it."

Durland just nodded, quivering and turned away. Blubbs stood up and went after him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, sometimes we have to do things like this," Blubbs assured him. "It's all part of being a small-town cop. You think we were trained for that Northwest stuff because it was the right thing to do?"

Durland looked at Blubbs, his usual vacant affection giving way to contempt.

"That don't make me feel better, Blubbs," he drawled before storming out of the room.

* * *

Mabel and Dipper made it to Greasy's Diner just before it closed. Lazy Susan was about to close it for the night, but seeing two of her favorite customers (one of them wearing a makeshift pig costume) she let them in. Now they were munching on complementary chili fries as they held their Emergency Twin Meeting.

"Where's Wendy?" Mabel asked before digging into her fries.

"Oh, she left," Dipper said, looking awkwardly down at the floor. "She had other things to do."

"Huh." Mabel said, staring at him. "That doesn't sound like her."

"Well, tonight it was," Dipper pouted. Mabel decided not to press it, but slipped out her phone, texting Wendy:

EVERYTHING ALRITE

"Anyway, did you really have to scream like that over the phone?" Dipper asked in annoyance. "My ears are still ringing!"

"Of course I did!" Mabel said. "It's not every day we have a super secret emergency meeting at midnight!"

"Well, it's not every day Toby Determined gets arrested in the middle of the night, either!" Dipper announced.

Mabel's mouth opened in shock, allowing some half-chewed chili to glob on the table. Dipper winced in disgust.

"What did Toby do?" Mabel asked.

"They're blaming him for the break-in," Dipper said. "At least that's what they said on the news."

Mabel cleaned up her chin. "But...that doesn't make any sense," she said. "I mean, Toby was the one who started the story. And he got zapped along with the police. Why would he do that to himself?"

"They're saying Toby just wanted attention," Dipper said, his voice evincing frustration and bitterness, a memory of Wendy's rejecting, then a half-believing thought that maybe the logical explanation was once.

Mabel's phone buzzed. She looked and saw a text from Wendy: FINE, JUST DIPPER BEING EXTRA DIPPER. :-P

She puzzled this over in her mind, feeling a bit disappointed that they wouldn't have a Corduroy along to kick butt. She didn't know what to think about Toby, but she wasn't going to second-guess her brother about something like this. How many times had he been right in the past about the craziest things?

"What do _you_ say, Dip?" Mabel said, placing a hand on her twin's arm.

Dipper looked up with resolution, energized by her support.

"I say it's malarkey!" Dipper said. "Toby's weird, but he isn't a criminal. And there's too much weird evidence that disappeared, even before the break-in happened. Toby's the only one who cared and whoever's managing this threw him in jail to shut him up."

"We're going to have to investigate this on our own," Dipper averred. "But where do we even _start_?"

* * *

Wendy felt bad about what she'd said to Dipper. It's not that she didn't want to help Dipper, it's just that...there was so much weirdness going on in Gravity Falls on a given day, something centered around Toby Determined and things that happened a hundred years ago didn't interest her overmuch. And hey, maybe Occam's Razor applied for a change. Who could say?

Plus, she didn't much care for Dipper being a stubborn doofus. He was always stubborn, always assuming the wildest, most outlandish thing imaginable. And sure, he'd been right about Gideon and Bill Cipher and God knows what else over the years, but this seemed too mundane an incident for his weirdness to fit.

These thoughts wrestled in her mind as she drove home. Just as she came within sight of the Corduroy family homestead, her friendship won out. "Damn it," she said out loud, before turning around and heading back into town.

On a hunch, she drove over to Toby's place. There was police tape draped over the door, which Wendy naturally paid no heed to. To her surprise, she found the door still unlocked and stepped inside.

Toby's place was a complete mess - papers and books and DVDs, a chair on its side, drawers flung out of file cabinets. The cardboard Shaundra Jimenez lay face down in what appeared to be (what Wendy hoped was) a puddle of coffee in the corner of the room.

" _Seriously_ , dude?" Wendy cringed. There was nothing about this guy she liked. Maybe he _did_ belong in jail.

She swallowed her disgust and looked around. After a moment she saw, amidst the mess, something sticking out of a pillow on the floor. She reached over and saw an envelope. It was addressed from the State Library of Oregon in Salem, and had a large square-shaped bulge in it.

Looking around, she rearranged the chair and say down, opening the letter. She saw a roll of microfilm with a message amended:

"Dear Mr. Determined,

"As requested, here is a microfilm copy containing issues of the Gravity Hills Gazette from November 1918 through August 1921. Since these files were so difficult to locate, we may need to discuss a larger fee than we had previously agreed upon. Thank you for your time and I hope this finds you well.

"Regards,

Ariel Nguyen,

State Library of Oregon."

Wendy opened the box and saw a roll of microfilm, the tape slightly dented at the end. As she regarded it, she realized that Dipper might be right. She smirked, knowing that she should no better than to distrust her little dork.

She texted Mabel: WHERE R U GUYS? and went out to her car as she waited for an answer. She sighed and stared at the ceiling of her car, absently hitting at it, wondering when she would get some sleep. She really hoped that there was something here that justified her staying up past midnight on a weeknight.

As she waited, a dark car pulled up beside Toby's house. Wendy didn't notice until the Man got out. Wendy spotted him and somehow recognized him. Not consciously, perhaps, but a feeling of memory, a figure spotted in peripheral vision...

The library. That's where.

"Oh, shit!" Wendy said, ducking down in her seat. Everything came together - not only was something going on, but it was evidently something worth killing for.

She waited until the Man disappeared inside the house, then slowly put the car into gear. Then she rammed the gas pedal and sped off down the street.

* * *

Mabel texted Wendy their location under the table, listening to Dipper spin his elaborate theories.

"I mean, it must be something really awful if they're willing to steal it and jail people to cover it up," he said. "Maybe it's a hidden treasure! Or proof of extraterrestrials! Maybe proof that the Northwests have been pals with Bill Cipher since the very beginning!"

"I think we know everything about the Northwests that we could know," she assured him. "Besides, Pacifica..."

"I mean, think about it, Mabel. Preston is running for Senate, and all the clues we have point us towards the Northwests. They have a history with the Corduroys and we need to figure it out."

They heard the screech of car breaks in the parking lot, watched as Wendy bolted out of her van and ran into the restaurant.

"Hi Wendy!" Lazy Susan greeted. "A bit late for your usual, but I can get you something..."

"Wendy!" Mabel waved frantically. She nodded at Susan and ran down the aisle to the Pines Twins, struggling to catch her breath.

"Dudes," she panted. "I just had the most intense thing happen to me. I went over to Toby's place and..." She reached into her jacket and pulled out the microfilm. Dipper regarded it with open awe.

"Holy Moses," he muttered.

"I've never been so interested in junk like this before," Mabel said half-seriously. "What is it?"

"Microfilm, Mabes," Wendy said. "You know, the junk the use to save old timey newspapers and documents on. Found it hidden inside a pillow at Toby's place."

"Wow, this is really great," Dipper said, impressed.

"Yeah," Wendy agreed. Then, after a pause. "I'm sorry I doubted you, man."

Dipper smiled. "No big deal. If anyone's going to be a creep, it's Toby."

Wendy shook her head, laughing. "Dude, no kidding. Trust me, you do **not** want to see the inside of his house!"

"What can we do with it?" Mabel asked, examining the film. "It's so widdle."

Lazy Susan put down a glass of water. Wendy grabbed it and downed the whole thing in one gulp.

"Magnifying glass?" Dipper suggested.

"Maybe," Mabel said. "I'm sure Grunkle Stan..."

"Whoa, whoa!" Wendy said, her composure regained. "There was a bald dude with a mustache casing out the place when I left. Like, he was a really scary, intense guy, looked like one of those gangsters you'd see on TV or, you know, a video game."

"Did he see you?" Mabel asked, suddenly concerned.

"I don't know," Wendy said. "But I'd seen him before. He was with us at the Museum the first day we were there. I _know_ I saw him there."

Dipper tried to put two and two together. "Didn't Toby say something, in the article, about a bald guy attacking him?"

Wendy's heart skipped a beat. "Wow man, this is serious business." Then she finally registered Mabel's costume and broke out into a long, tension-relieving laugh.

"And just what is so funny?" Mabel asked, offended.

"Nothing, Mabes!" Wendy said, struggling to contain herself. "It's just - wow, it's so you! I mean, who else would be wearing a pig costume at midnight in a diner!"

"A BBQ restaurant's mascot coming home from a mascot convention?" Mabel shrugged. Which only made Wendy laugh harder.

"Guys, focus," Dipper interjected. "We need to tell Grunkle Stan."

"Dude, I don't think Stan should know," Wendy said. "At least, not for now. I know he's a tough old codger, but I don't want to get anyone else in trouble with this guy. Besides, you want"

"Anyway, we're perfectly capable of dealing with him ourselves!" Mabel declared, slamming her grappling hook down on the table.

Wendy stared in stunned silence; her little friend never ceased to amaze her. "Dude, where do you even _keep_ -?" she began.

"Don't ask questions!" Mabel beamed.

"Well, if a magnifying glass is out...maybe there's a phone app somewhere?" Dipper asked.

"Wait! Maybe there's something at the museum we can use," Mabel said. "I mean, you said they keep stuff like that on file there, papers and things like that, right?"

"Yeah, but the museum is closed," Dipper reminded her.

"Oh, boo!" Mabel said, giving a thumbs-down. "Guess we'll have to wait until morning."

"I don't think this _can_ wait until morning!" Dipper insisted. "We need to take a look at this stuff, now."

"Well, what can we do?" Mabel asked. "I mean, I'm all for investigate-y caper-y kinda stuff, but at midnight everything's going to be closed." Her eyes widened. "Unless you brought the President's Key with you!"

Dipper stared at her uncomprehendingly for a minute...then face-palmed. "God, stupid! I left it back at the Shack!"

"You know, a key that unlocks any door in the country would come in handy when you need to break into things," Mabel chided.

"I guess we'll have to go get it." He stood up, and...

"Hey man, we could always go down to the Museum and pick the lock," Wendy suggested. "I mean, I'm a little rusty at it, but..."

"Wait, guys!" Mabel interrupted. "I have another idea. An easier one! One that won't land us in jail with Toby." She fumbled for her phone and dialed a number she'd just added a few days ago.

"Hi, Charlie, it's Mabel." She chuckled, listening to what Dipper and Wendy could tell was an agitated response. "Yeah, it's late. Sorry. Hey, I have a teeny, tiny favor to ask of you..."


	8. Chapter 7: 1919

February 1st, 1919

* * *

Rick Corduroy downed a shot of whiskey at Wentworth's Bar, his ax resting against his stool. He'd just finished another rough day at the logging camp, ten hours of back breaking labor cutting and sorting and carrying wood in the snow. He didn't mind the work, hard and long and cold and monotonous though it was. Every cut and scrape and splinter and speck of dirt and smudge of mud made him feel like a man, made it worth the agony of the daily grind. If nothing else it put food on the table, and it took his mind away from things he'd prefer not to think about.

He did mind, however, that his camp was more and more resembling a war zone. There were guard towers, detectives carrying shotguns and Winchester rifles at the entrance, watching the workers as they arrived and patrolling the camp constantly. Sometimes they brought dogs or horses to intimidate the loggers. Outwardly it seemed to work, as they trudged through the day sullen and angry, trying their best to ignore that their employer considered them potential criminals.

Among the loggers pamphlets began to circulate, hot words were mumbled under breaths, vague threats and imprecise oaths shared when a guard or foreman's back was turned. All of it directed at Dylan Northwest, the arrogant company owner who had infuriated the loggers a year earlier by declaiming, "I owe my workers nothing." Whether this would end in a strike or something worse remained to be seen, but Rick could tell the status quo wasn't sustainable without bursting.

So far though, all talk and threats were empty. And Rick did his best to ignore it. He hadn't served his country to help bastards like the Northwests anyway, nor did he work to make them rich. He worked because he needed a job, because he was good at this one, and because his family needed money and food and to feel alive. Not even the meanest, most arrogant tycoon could take that away from him.

Or so Rick thought.

Chad Wentworth, the portly, graying bar owner in an olive-green vest, walked over to Rick.

"Things are getting ugly all over the northwest, Rick," he said. "You hear about Seattle? Thirty five thousand fellas walked off the job last week. Longshoreman, shipbuilders, all the people at the docks. Other workers in the town threatening to join 'em. The Mayor screaming that they're all Bolsheviks and that they all ought to be hanged." He shook his head. "What the hell happened to this country?"

"As long as I'm paid, I don't really care," Rick said quietly.

"What _you_ need to do is get out of that business," Chad said. "You know things can't last for long. They say the Wobblies up in Portland are talking about coming down here and starting trouble. My God, can you imagine it? The last thing we need are those lunatics blowing this town all to hell. We have enough problems without a damn civil war breaking out."

"You listen to everything someone blabs into your ear?" Rick asked.

"I listen when it sounds like what's going on," Chad said defensively. Rick belched. "And all I'm saying," the barman continued, "is that when things explode I'd rather you not get caught in the mess."

"What else would you have me do?" Rick asked with a sudden burst of frustration. "I'm pushing thirty, I've got no education and I've been doing this job since I was a teenager. What the hell is my other option? No mining jobs around here any more, farming won't take this time of year, and I'm not skilled to much else."

"I could use a partner," Chad offered quietly.

Rick laughed. "I'm a lot better at drinking alcohol than serving it," he said, slamming down another shot to emphasize his point.

Chad smirked at him. "Well, it's a lot better than waiting for a tree to fall on your head."

"Says you."

"Especially if that tree's knocked over with dynamite."

Rick stared out the window. He thought he heard a commotion starting outside, but couldn't place it.

"Have you had any luck getting in touch with Becky?" Chad asked.

Now he'd mentioned the one topic that made Rick more sore than labor problems. Rather than face the truth, he decided to brazen it out.

"I'm going over to see her once I'm done here," he said, not facing the bartender.

Chad chuckled. "Best of luck to you."

The commotion outside grew louder, with shouts of what sounded like a foreign language, taunts and insults.

"My God, not again," Chad sighed.

"What?" Rick asked.

"Thad Northwest and his boys having fun again," the barman spit, looking angry and hopeless.

Rick felt a flash of anger. He remembered what Duke had told him before about that punk making trouble. Instinctively he stood up and grabbed his ax.

"What are you doing?" Chad asked in alarm.

"Going for a walk," the lumberjack said laconically. He paused for a moment, fishing out some coins and slapping them down on the table.

* * *

Thaddeus Albert Nathaniel Northwest loved the feeling of power that his uniform gave him. True, it was his father's, worn during the Spanish-American War, an outdated blend of dark blues and khakis. But along with black jackboots and gloves it looked positively intimidating on his tall, lanky frame (he had discarded his father's TR-inspired scarf as unnecessarily effete). He felt it his duty to defend Gravity Falls against its enemies while the other, poorer townspeople risked their lives overseas, and he had his own way of doing it. Even with the war three months over, for who knew when the Kaiser would rise again, or what other monster would rise in his wake?

Now Thad and a half-dozen fellow patriots - criminals and bully boys washed up to look respectable in street clothes - confronted Hans-Heinrich Befufftlefumpter, a dry goods store owner, the Kaiser's No. 1 agent in Gravity Falls, the handiest target of abuse. In fact he was a meek, rolly polly little German with a younger wife and a ten year old son, Eustace; his only crime was an imperfect grasp of the English language.

"I am U.S.A. Patriot!" he insisted as one of Thad's men lunged for him. He gasped and clutched his hat to his chest. "I am no spy but German."

"Is that a confession?" Thad said mockingly.

"No confession! No confession!" Befufftlefumpter insisted, backing away into the street.

Thad's eyes flashed with malice, an evil smile spreading across his face. "You know what lads, I'm willing to believe that Herr Befufftlefumpter is indeed a sincere American, just like you and me." He motioned for two of his men to step forward. "There's an easy to prove it, you know."

Herr Hans stared momentarily, struggling to understand his tormentor's words. Then his memory flashed back to a dark night six months earlier, when he'd been made a spectacle for the whole town's enjoyment.

"No! No! I will not sing Hail Columbia again!" he shrieked. "You had fun, I prove myself-" He devolved to sputtering in his native language as the two goons grabbed his arms.

Thad's face fell melodramatically and he walked over to his victim. He placed a hand on the wriggling German's shoulder.

"Well then, _mein freund_ , how will we know you're a patriot after all?" he sneered. He paused, feigning a thought. "Maybe there's another way. Another way to prove that you aren't a boot-licking, kraut-eating, Kaiser-worshipping Boche Hun."

He turned to his men, all glowering at the hapless shopkeeper.

"What do you say, gentlemen? Maybe we can wash the Hun clean!"

There was a loud, mocking cheer, and Befufflefumpter screamed again as the men lifted him off the ground, breaking out into a patriotic verse. They started carrying him towards a watering trough, prepared to reenact a misery.

"No! Hans, my God!" his wife shouted, appearing on the street with their young son in hand. She looked around accusingly at the townspeople who were trying their best to ignore what had, sadly, become a familiar spectacle over the past two years. "Somebody stop them!"

A constable walked past, briefly considered intervening, then ducked into a stable.

"It's all right, Fraulein," Thad Northwest assured her, raising his voice over her husband's shouts and his henchmen's cheers. "We're just going to give him a quick bath."

"NORTHWEST!" A voice rumbled across the street; the shouting and cheering faded.

Thad turned and saw Rick Corduroy, his ax slung over his shoulder, standing a few feet away. His eyes blazed pure hate.

"Well, Rick Corduroy!" Thad said grandiloquently. "Hero of the Marne, savior of France! And, dare I add, employee of my father."

"Let him go," Rick said.

"We're just in the process of doing so," Thad said, gesturing for his goons to fling Befufflefumpter into the trough.

"Not kidding, Northwest," Rick added, stepping closer.

"You going to interfere with an agent of the United States government?" Thad asked. Rick shook his head in confusion.

Thad smiled triumphantly, whipping out a badge. "See here, Corduroy," he said, showing it to the lumberjack. "Not only am I a Northwest, which ought to be enough considering your position, I'm a member of the American Protective League. As such, it's my duty -"

Rick tossed the badge into the mud; Thad's face twitched in scarce-restrained fury.

"Last chance," Rick said simply.

"You looking for trouble, Corduroy?" Thad asked.

"You aim to help me find some?" Rick said.

Thad smirked and nodded at his men. After a moment he turned, and sent a fist flying towards the lumberjack -

Who blocked it with his ax handle, then cracked the rich vigilante over the head with its back. Thad stumbled backwards, dazed, and Rick nudged him until he fell over into the mud, his uniform ruined.

Thad's goons struggled to contain their laughter at their own boss. Then they saw Rick's deadly glare, and let Befufflefumpter go. The shopkeeper, uttering oaths in German, scuttled away towards his wife.

One of Thad's men, a tall, bulky man with black hair and a heavy beard, helped the Northwest to his feet. Thad was covered in mud and his own blood, stumbled backward, dazed, into his henchmen's arm.

"You see here, Corduroy," he slurred. "I thought you were a hero. But instead, you're a goddamned Kaiser lover like that Kraut."

"War's over, Northwest," Rick said simply. "And I didn't fight it so pieces of shit like you could come home and push little shopkeepers around."

With exaggerated dignity, Thad straightened out his collar and stepped forward for another round.

"Oh, I would disagree," he muttered. "War with the likes of you is never over."

Rick looked and saw all six of Thad's henchmen step forward. Rick clutched his ax, fully ready to do mortal combat -

"HOLD IT!" Everyone turned and saw Chad Wentworth, stepping into the street with two revolvers, aiming them at Thad and his gang.

"Go home, Thad," he said, his voice quavering. "You already made an ass of yourself, no reason to make a corpse as well."

Rick smirked at his friend's impromptu wit. Thad turned to face the barman but stumbled backward, still dazed from Rick's ax. He tried to muster some fight, but saw that his men were terrified at the prospect of facing an armed man unarmed.

"All right, all right," Thad said, trying to brazen things out. "We were just having some fun and things got out of hand." He muttered this more to himself than any listener, as if rehearsing a speech for later (not that he at all worried about getting into trouble, with the constable hiding among the horses). "Boy, you've got an impressive wallop there," he said to Rick, feigning friendship. "By God, we could use someone like you with us."

Rick's glare provided all the answer he needed.

"Well, just a suggestion," Thad hissed, still keeping a smile on his dazed and muddied face. He staggered backwards and signaled to his men.

"Johnny, get your gun!" he shouted.

"Take it on the run, on the run, on the run!" his men answered. And they marched off past gaping townspeople, breaking into a chorus of "Over There" until they faded out of sight.

Rick looked around, stoically taking in the scene. He saw Herr Befufftlefumpter and his family smiling appreciatively, others staring in awe or fright. He simply walked over to Chad, his guns still in the air, petrified with fright.

"You look like you could use a drink," he said before walking off.

* * *

It had been awhile since anyone called Rebecca Whitney Mercer "Becky." Twenty-two years old, short, thin and pert with long brown hair worn in a bob or ponytail, she considered that name the mark of a young girl who no longer existed.

Indeed, the sign at her shop read "Rebecca Mercer's Fabrics and Clothing." She helped old Mrs. Horner pick out a dark green fabric to make a party dress for her great-niece, then sat down and finished sewing the hem on a wedding dress ordered by one of her friends. Just as the sun started setting she closedthe shop, admiring the mannequins and her handiwork. She lingered only briefly, placing the dress where she could get it; she had an engagement that evening she couldn't break.

She'd changed a lot in the past two years, since she'd dated a tough, red-haired lumberjack named Rick Corduroy, who'd left her for the battle front and broken her heart. She determined to make use of her education and her love for sewing inherited from her seamstress mother. She'd managed to set up her shop in the town with a little seed money from her parents, and already made herself into that rare thing in 1910s Oregon - a financially independent woman.

It wasn't easy, of course. The men in town mostly looked at her as a potential bed mate or an easy ride to a cozy lifestyle (never mind that she barely made enough money to support herself, let alone a layabout husband). The women viewed her with a mixture of respect and contempt; they liked her abilities and her cheerful, can-do attitude, but couldn't help viewing her as a spinster-in-making. Some indelicately suggested that she should find a husband.

Rebecca would do that on her own time, she thought. She enjoyed male company from time to time, but marriage was the least of her worries.

Arriving at her modest home near the edge of town, she was changing from her white work blouse and apron into a self-designed yellow dress when she heard a dock on the door. She examined her clock, noting it was only 6:00, well too early to be her latest suitor. Unless, of course, he had a surprise for her.

Rebecca fiddled with her hair as she went to the door, a bit flustered. She opened it and saw, to her amazement, Rick Corduroy, whom she hadn't seen since April 1917. He was wearing his familiar overalls, not sporting a hat.

"Becky," he said simply.

"Rick," she said in shock.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but... I wanted to say hello," he sputtered finally.

"Well, it took you long enough," Rebecca answered. "You've been home for two months! It took you long enough to call."

Rick lowered his head and shook it. "Well, it's been..." He didn't want to get into his agonies, not right now. "I've been getting back to normal first. Wanted to be the old me before I met you."

"Ah," Rebecca said, eyeing him. "You certainly don't seem to have changed. But what makes you think I haven't?"

"That's a chance I'm willing to take," Rick muttered.

The two stood awkwardly at the doorstep, then Rebecca moved to close the door.

"I have plans for tonight," she said. "You picked the worst time to stop by."

Rick blocked the door with his shoulder. "Please, Rebecca," he insisted - the first time she'd heard him use her proper name. "It's been - I wanted to see you."

"You've seen me," she said, struggling to hide her own emotions. Rick looked absolutely heartbroken, a puppy dog cowering at her door. She felt awful, but she didn't think this was the right time to have a conversation.

"Maybe some other time," Rick asked, pleading with her.

"I would like to see you sometime," Rebecca said, "but..."

"Excuse me," a voice called beside Rick. Rick turned and saw...those hyena eyes from earlier.

Thad Northwest. Somehow, he had managed to clean himself up, now dressed in a black overcoat, so there wasn't the slightest indication that he'd been in a brawl. Except for a slight dent in his scalp that he had tried combing over.

"Well, Rick Corduroy!" Thad said. "I didn't know you knew Ms. Mercer."

"We were old friends," Rick said. The two men kept up a pretense of civility in front of her.

"Very interesting," Thad said, stepping past him into the doorway. He held out his arm and Rebecca grabbed it with exaggerated devotion.

"Of course, we're friends now," he said, smiling broadly. "Been for awhile. But who am I to compete with the hero of Gravity Falls?"

"At least you've been keeping the home fires burning," Rick said with what sarcasm he could muster.

"That's enough," Rebecca cut in, eyes flashing between the two men. "Rick, we will talk some other time. But as you can see..." She gestured at Thad, who leered at the lumberjack like the vile, vulpine lummox he was.

"Of course," Rick sputtered, a proud, tough man brought low by social awkwardness, backing off the porch. "I will...see you," he said, struggling to find the most basic words. He was humiliated and wanted to hide.

"We're looking forward to it," Thad said with a wave. The lumberjack didn't look back, wondering if there were enough booze in all the world to erase the humiliation and shock he'd felt.

* * *

Thad stared after him with smug triumph, then looked at his partner and kissed her on the cheek. She led him eagerly inside, closing the door behind them.

Rick Corduroy might be stronger, tougher, harder, a war hero and a working man, but he was a Northwest - rich and well-connected, patriotic and clever and cunning, and, dare he suggest, not bad-looking in a rakish sort of way. Rick Corduroy could clobber him into the mud, but Thad Northwest could court Rebecca Mercer in polite society. That counted, in his mind at least, as one major victory.

Still, even as he and Rebecca chatted, preparing to leave for supper, a pang of humiliation, a memory of pain and fear flashed through his mind, thinking back to the afternoon.

Maybe some day soon, if he played his cards right, he could return the favor with interest. Sure, he could have his father fire Corduroy, but that didn't seem enough, wouldn't be satisfying. He had to settle things on his own terms, to ensure that Rick Corduroy felt the humiliation he'd felt wallowing in the mud every moment for the rest of his miserable plebeian life.

All in good time.


	9. Chapter 8

_Author's note: three chapters in as many days! If I somehow manage to keep up this pace, I might actually finish this story before Doomsday. Thanks to The Shadow Wolfe and Joseph for your reviews, and everyone else who is reading and following!_

 **June 29th, 2018**

Dipper, Mabel and Wendy stood impatiently waiting for Charlie to open the Museum doors. Wendy in particular seemed on edge, her eyes keeping a look out for the Man, making sure that her hatchet was secured under her arm in case she needed it.

"Sorry I haven't been much help this week," Charlie said, chattering awkwardly as he tried fitting an oversize key into the lock. "We've been putting our energies towards Pioneer Day - that's our big event each year, and it devours everyone like a black hole. Not much time for research or, you know, productive things."

"Isn't that usually earlier in the summer?" Dipper asked, wondering how Charlie could be so clumsy with keys.

"Oh Dipper," Mabel answered, "you know _nothing_ of the Chamber of Commerce!"

Dipper stared in askance at his sister. "Umm, you've got me there."

"I mean, this whole break-in thing you guys are investigating threw us behind schedule," Charlie said, trying to jimmy the key in the lock. "That and some of our vendors cancelled - no chicken pot pie this year, for one thing." (Mabel frowned; Wendy licked her lips; Dipper rolled his eyes.) "The Chamber of Commerce is having a hard time raising donations - tough year all around the state for that sort of thing. And the biggest issue-" The door finally clicked.

"There we go!" Charlie went in and turned on the lights, past the exhibits with signs and posters advertising Pioneer Day plastered everywhere.

"Anyway," he said, leading his friends down the hall, "we're trying to get a Northwest to show up for the event. And since _Daddy_ Northwest is running for the Senate, that hasn't been easy."

"I mean, this is basically _their_ festival," Dipper said, running his hand along a velvet rope. "A paean to the glories of the mighty Northwests. Why wouldn't they show up?"

"People in this town still hate their guts," Charlie said. "Or at least they hate _Preston_ 's guts. That's why he hasn't been campaigning here at all. His chances of winning Roadkill County are slim to none."

"Well, they rebuilt the statue of Nathaniel Northwest in town," Dipper pointed out. "So obviously they're not averse to Northwest."

"True, but they don't know, or believe the story you told about him," Charlie said. "Maybe they think the Senator-to-be is just a bad apple from a good family. I dunno."

"He's a bad _something_ ," Wendy said, wrinkling her nose.

"Not _all_ Northwests are bad," Mabel interjected, ribbing her brother. "Right, Dipper?"

"I guess," Dipper groaned.

"Well, I'm not a fan," Charlie said, opening the door to the microfilm room. "But still, they bring donations and a lot of sightseers. Especially Pacifica - she's grown into quite the little philanthropist."

For a moment, Dipper thought back again to their shared summer a few years ago...But it was dashed when Charlie led them into the room.

"Where's the, uh, microfilm?" Charlie said, turning the machine on.

"Right here!" Mabel shouted, handing him the roll.

"Thanks, Mabel!" Charlie said, then tried fitting the roll into place.

Dipper watched in bemusement as her sister clutched her hands together, practically beaming at Charlie as he went about this mundane task. Good Lord, she _did_ have a crush on him didn't she? Ordinarily stuff like this would put her to sleep!

After a minute of fussing, the microfilm finally fit into the machine. "There you are, guys," he said. "Do you think you can take it from here?" He demonstrated the buttons for zooming and focusing the lens in the reader. "This thing is a piece of junk, but you should be able to read a newspaper."

"Thanks a lot, dude," Wendy said, shaking his hand.

"No problem!" Charlie said. "I have a few things I can do around the office while you work. That way, if someone catches us they won't get suspicious."

"Thanks Charlie! You're the best!" Mabel said.

"Oh, come on," Dipper groaned under his breath as he sat down in front of the reader. Wendy just laughed.

"All right, I'm going to go restock the shelves," Charlie said. "We just got a new shipment of clove candy sticks and someone needs to put them away. Let me know if you need any help." He exited, leaving the Mystery Trio to their devices.

"Clove candy sticks?" Wendy said. "Boo!"

"Well, somebody's gotta sell 'em," Dipper said, now scrolling through the machine.

Mabel watched her brother work for a minute, then got visibly bored. "Tell ya what, guys! I'm gonna go help him sort those candy sticks!"

"All right," Dipper said distractedly as her sister darted out the door.

Dipper sighed. "Of course, Mabel's got to goof off with a guy while we're doing the hard work." Wendy detected a strange note of bitterness that annoyed him.

"Relax, man," Wendy said. "Mabel's gonna be Mabel. That's why she's wearing a pig costume in the middle of the night! Meanwhile, she got us here, didn't she? She just has her own way of doing things."

"Yeah, I guess," he replied absently.

"Besides, Charlie needs _somebody_ to protect him if that dude from earlier shows up," Wendy added. "I've seen the guy hurt his wrist lifting heavy file folders."

* * *

In the gift shop, Mabel leaned against a shelf sucking seductively, or what she imagined was seductively, on a clove candy stick while Charlie worked. At least until the taste sank in, a weird weird herbal tang faintly reminiscent of a day-old cough drop. People paid money for these? Must be an old-timey thing.

"If you don't like those, at least you're missing the horehound," Charlie joked, sticking a handful of sticks into a glass jar.

"Totally," Mabel said, not sure she wanted to know what horehound was. She pondered the handful of collectibles - a few sad, handmade crafts, some cookbooks and works on Oregon history and pioneer paraphernalia - around her, and wondered how much business such a drab place could possibly do.

"So, I was thinking..." Mabel said, covertly dropping her candy into a garbage can. In the silence it clattered deafeningly. "Maybe you could use some more, you know, full-time help around here."

"You mean, from you?" Charlie asked as he moved across the room.

"Pssh, I mean, yeah," Mabel said. "This place could use some sprucing up. Give it the ol' Mabel touch!"

"We could always use volunteers," Charlie said, straightening out some soaps on the shelf. "Especially for Pioneer Days. Just be glad our director Mike isn't here to pester you about it."

"Like I need pestering," Mabel scoffed. "If nothing else it will be a day away from the Shack and all that jazz."

Charlie considered this, then took in Mabel's outfit - she'd taken the ears and nose off, but still wore the pink shirt and tail. "Hey, what the hell are you wearing?"

Mabel feigned offense. "This, sir, is a fashionable pig ensemble created from scratch by the brilliant fashion designer before you."

"Well, it's certainly...something." Words failed Charlie, as they did many people encountering Mabel's special genius for the first (or second, or third, or two hundredth) time.

"It's in honor of my pet pig Waddles," Mabel explained. "I met him here six years ago, and he's been my best friend ever since. Only he couldn't make it back this year because he had to see the pig doctor." She frowned.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Charlie said. He put a hand on Mabel's shoulder, not noticing her touched reaction. "But hey, there is a way you might be able to put these talents to good use."

"This isn't good enough?" Mabel demanded, indicating her outfit.

"All right, I'll take that back," Charlie grinned. "Good use for us."

* * *

VRROOOOM! spun the microfilm in jerks and starts. Wendy's eyes spun and grew tired watching Dipper spin through the film.

She admitted it: she wasn't half as smart as Dipper, didn't ordinarily give a damn about this stuff. She was glad that her dork found this interesting, even when there wasn't a pressing mystery to investigate, but my God, she couldn't stand it.

Looking through old newspapers, faded and cracked even in their reproduced forms - Dipper didn't even bother to focus most times unless he spotted something interesting - was tiring. Sure, she got a kick out of some of the quaint, weird, occasionally racist things that she spotted in the newspaper: advertisements for cough elixirs featuring heroin, arguments for and against temperance, a humor column about a dumb black man falling on the sidewalk ("Ugh," Wendy uttered vocally when she spotted that one), a cartoon comparing the Oregon State Legislature to the British landings at Gallipoli... But it all became a blur so far as she was concerned.

"Here you go, Wendy!" he said, pointing at a column from July 1918. "Rick Corduroy, Hun Slayer."

"Oh, sweet!" Wendy said, scooting up and reading a piece about her ancestor's heroism. It pretty much accorded with what Dan told her, recounting his adventures punching Krauts in the trenches, saving his colleagues and basically being the badass you'd expect from a Corduroy. Her heart swelled as she read of her ancestor's awesome exploits.

"I guess it runs in the family," Dipper said, joshing his friend.

"You're damn right it does!" Wendy said. "Hey, maybe I can get a copy of this for my dad," she said. "This is too cool." She took out her phone and snapped a picture.

"I don't think that the Northwests, or whoever would want to cover up your great-great-whatever-grandfather being a total hero," Dipper said.

"No, but maybe they'd want to cover up that," she pointed.

There was a small article: "Thad. Northwest Keeps Gravity Falls Safe."

They read an article about how the younger Northwest organized a cell of the American Protective League to root out spies in Gravity Falls. They both laughed at the notion that Germans would want anything here, "unless," Wendy noted, "it's an Indiana Jones deal where they were trying to contact Bill Cipher and harness his evil occult energy or something."

"Indiana Jones fought Nazis, that was World War II," Dipper said.

"Right, right," Wendy admitted, punching his shoulder. "So my ancestor was a badass and this guy was a dork. So what? You really think somebody wants to hide that?"

"Well, we've still got another year-and-a-half of papers to go," Dipper announced.

Wendy groaned. "Man, sometimes I think you _like_ this stuff," she teased.

"Well, I like it if there's something worth looking for," Dipper said, turning the dial to scroll. And Wendy couldn't argue with that.

* * *

"No, no, no! This simply won't do!" Mabel cried, examining a ratty blue-and-white pioneer costume. "It looks like it's been worn for twenty years without anyone washing it."

"I don't know about the not-washing-it part, but the twenty years I could believe."

"And look at this one! You can't just let buck skin sit around and get moldy like this! It's gross!"

Charlie crossed his arms with amusement. "All right, Ms. Pines, what is your brilliant suggestion?"

Mabel put her hand to her chin, thinking hard. "The only solution is to Mabelize everything."

Like a whirlwind she grabbed a piece of paper and started doodling ideas with the nearest pencil. Charlie was agog watching her puzzle out designs from her head, scrawling and scratching then erasing and altering, a freakish fluid motion of thought and energy. It wasn't quite like anything he'd ever seen before - it utterly amazed him.

"Tada!" Mabel finished after a few minutes of fevered planning. He showed Charlie her design. He expected something utterly insane and elaborate, only to spy...a simple calico dress with white buttons and matching gloves. It was disappointing yet also, in its own way, impressive.

"Wow, that's incredible, Mabel," he said. "Very cool!"

"Oh, it's not _that_ good," she said modestly. "I mean, if I had crayons or colored pencils..."

"Do you think you could make one of these?" Charlie asked.

"If you have the fabrics and a sewing machine!" Mabel beamed.

"I mean, you could check out Mercer's Fabric in town or somewhere like that," Charlie said. "Seriously Mabel, this is awesome."

"Aww, I'm glad you like it," Mabel said. There was a pause longer than either of them could have wanted or expected.

"You know Mabel," Charlie began hesitantly. "It means a lot that you want to spend time here..." He choked out the words: "...with me."

"I mean, most girls like you see a loser like me and run the other way," Charlie admitted.

"Girls like me?" Mabel asked, genuinely curious what he meant. Usually when she heard something like that, it wasn't meant as a complement.

"You're so smart and funny and creative and...okay, you're a little weird, but that's part of the package." Mabel noticed Charlie couldn't make eye contact. "I'm just a loser who gets excited pouring through old newspapers and archives all day. That's not anyone's idea of fun, except maybe some old people with too much free time."

Now it was Mabel's turn to comfort him. "Hey, we all have our obsessions," she assured him, adopting a soft, sincere tone few people except Dipper ever heard. "That's what makes life worth living. I'm not gonna judge you for this stuff - I mean, I don't _entirely_ get it, but I'm eighteen and I still play with puppets and pigs and embroider everything I can get my hands on." She chuckled nervously.

"The only thing **I** ask is, you know, people don't judge me for who I am, and you know how people are. Especially at _my_ age. And, you know, for all the time I've spent hanging around here annoying you and hanging around...you haven't judged me at all." She poked his nose with a "bwap!" puncturing the solemn atmosphere.

"So, I guess we're both weird," Charlie said, feeling a little reassured.

Mabel chuckled. "Sure, but don't forget one thing," she said, leaning in as if to confide a secret.

"What's that?" Charlie asked.

Mabel smiled. "I'm weirder."

The two kissed, drawn together like magnets. It only lasted a few seconds, but Mabel thought it felt more right than anything she'd experienced in a long time.

"Well, we might have some crafty things in the back room," Charlie suggested, still moving and speaking in a daze. "If you'd like to spend more time..."

Mabel smiled, instantly snapping back to Mabel Mode. "Of course!" she shouted, practically pushing him out the door. "What are you waiting for? Go go go!"

Startled, Charlie hurried down the hallway. Mabel collapsed into a chair, heaving a lovesick sigh. Somewhere down the hall, barely perceptible above her swirling thoughts, she could hear the microfilm machine whirring.

* * *

"Holy shit, dude!" Wendy said, pointing at a headline from April 1919. "Stop there."

They had reached the last few issues of the paper before discovering a literal bombshell.

"BOLSHEVIK BOMBS KILL TWO

"LABOR LEADER, GOVERNOR'S AIDE OBLITERATED BY EXPLOSIVES

"NORTHWEST NARROWLY ESCAPES DEATH - SUFFERS MINOR INJURIES.

"RADICALS BELIEVED RESPONSIBLE

"Gravity Falls, OR - An explosion rocked the residence of local business leader Dylan Northwest yesterday morning, killing UWWA leader Lewis Stone and Mr. Chas. B. Ware, aide to Governor Olcott, who were meeting with Mr. Northwest to discussion negotiations with the Gravity Falls Loggers' Collective.

"The Collective, led by Richard Corduroy and John Cox, had recently gone on strike to protest the firing of a colleague, Thomas Knight, without pay or compensation. Corduroy and Cox are rumored to have been in touch with the Industrial Workers of the World, the radical labor union known colloquially as 'Wobblies.' It was hoped that Messers. Stone and Ware could negotiate a peaceful settlement between the loggers and the company. Such hopes, however, appear to have been dashed.

"Police haven't found evidence of responsibility, though it appears the perpetrators tossed either a bomb or a stick of dynamite threw a window which exploded at their table.

"Whether this bomb was thrown by local loggers or outside agitators, it represents an act of terrorism against our community - and the State of Oregon - unknown even during the war years. We encourage all residents of Gravity Falls, whatever their feelings towards the Northwest family or the loggers opposing them, to repudiate this savage deed and bring law and order back to our town."

Wendy sat back in a daze. "Oh man..." she uttered, mind spinning with thoughts. "My ancestor...holy shit, dude!"

She couldn't form any coherent thoughts. There it was, in black and white, evidence that her ancestor, who she had only seen previously as a war hero and a typical Corduroy...was a terrorist. Blowing people up with bombs or dynamite.

"Wendy..." Dipper was similarly shocked, trying to process the information. "There's got to be more to this story," he insisted, growing frantic as he tried finding ways to calm her down. "Maybe they caught the bombers later, maybe it was somebody else..."

"Dude, read that article!" Wendy grew shrill. "My God, this is...Why did we have to find that?"

Wendy's thoughts raced. She had spent years trying to move past her reputation as the weird tomboy everyone liked and despised in equal measure. Hard enough when her main sin was wearing flannel and swearing like a trucker. If people found out there was a terrorist in her family tree...my God, what would happen then?

"Don't worry, Wendy!" Dipper insisted, scrolling the dial. "We'll find out..." The dial clicked and then ran hard against the end of the file, stopping. "DAMN IT!" he shouted, punching the table.

"Maybe...there's another newspaper on file we could check," he said, trying to even out his voice. "Figure out what really happened. If Toby could find this roll of microfilm, maybe there's another somewhere?"

"Toby's in jail, Dipper," Wendy said.

"What the hey-hey?" Mabel said, rushing into the room. "Thought I heard Dipper swear, which usually-" He looked around at both of them, Wendy sulking with her arms crossed, Dipper pacing around the room.

"Whoa, what's the deal guys?" she asked.

"Oh, not much, Mabes," Wendy said. "Just found out my ancestor was a terrorist, that's all."

"What? You said he was a war hero."

"Well, he was a war hero for a few months anyway," Wendy replied curtly. "I guess every family has a piece of shit somewhere down the line."

"Come on, Wendy," Dipper said. "We just need to do more searching, get to the bottom of this..."

"Dipper, there's nothing more to get to the bottom of," Wendy insisted. "What could we possibly learn that's going to make this seem okay?"

"Do you really think someone was trying to cover up a Corduroy doing bad things?"

"You think my family isn't **important** enough to cover things up?" Now a flash of anger overtook her frustration. "You think no one would vouch for a stupid Corduroy?"

"Wendy," Dipper said, trying to calm her down. "You know that's not what I meant! Just...think about it. If this was the Northwests, or someone else, why would they want to hide something that made your family look bad and theirs look like victims? It doesn't make any sense."

"I...guess you're right," Wendy said, feeling a little reassured. "I'm sorry, Dip. It's just...how do you process something like that?"

"Wendy, even if he were a terrorist it was like a century ago," Mabel assured her. "Nobody's going to hold it against you now."

"Yeah, you think?" Wendy said skeptically. "People in this town act like a century ago was yesterday."

"There's something more here," Dipper said again. "I know it."

Wendy sighed. "I mean, I think you're probably right, Dipper, but think about it. Whoever's been covering up all this stuff really, really wants to hide it. It's really important to them and they're really on top of things. It's taken us this much effort to get this far, and all we have something that implicates my great-grandfather in God knows what."

"True," Mabel said. "But you're Wendy, remember? You aren't going to let some creeps with a secret beat the girl who won Weirdmageddon, are ya?"

Before she could answer, Dipper backed away. The girls turned and saw, to their shock, the bald man grabbing Charlie by the scruff of his neck, holding what looked like a cattle prod against his chest.

"Well, Ms. Corduroy, is it? Looks like you've discovered why people shouldn't go digging up the past. It's a lesson I hope all of you will soon take to heart."


	10. Chapter 9

_Author's note: Thanks to fereality for your generous review of the last chapter! I will keep writing this story so long as someone out there wants to read it!_

* * *

Dipper, Mabel and Wendy stared in shock as the Man led Charlie into the room. Subconsciously, Wendy started to fumble for her hatchet, while Dipper cursed himself for not borrowing Ford's magnet gun or something with which to defend himself. Mabel moved off to one side, eyes fixed not on Charlie but on his tormentor's shiny dome.

"Now, I'll keep it brief," he said. "I don't like to hurt or kill anyone unless I have to, least of all kids like you. I'm a businessman, and blood is a big expense. All the same, that doesn't mean I'll hesitate to fry your friend and all of you if you get in my way."

It took a lot more than that to intimidate three people who'd stared down Armageddon.

"Dude, seriously?" Dipper scoffed. "That's like, the opposite of brief. And you didn't tell us anything except that maybe you'd hurt us if you had to, which, like, we already knew from your holding a cattle prod to our friend's chest."

"Let me guess," Wendy rolled her eyes. "You're one of those stock movie villains who'd rather talk to a captive audience than actually go through with killing them. Been there, dude. It doesn't work in real life."

"Yeah, and...you're bald!" Mabel added, distracted by the shine off his scalp.

He tightened his grip on Charlie's collar and sparked his prod. "Guys, maybe this isn't the best time to provoke the professional killer," he sputtered.

Indeed, the Man wasn't amused. "I was trying to be reasonable with your smartasses," he growled. "Hand me the microfilm and no one gets hurt."

"See, you could have saved time by saying that in the first place," Dipper muttered.

"Fair enough. How about I electrocute all four of you and take the microfilm anyway?"

"Well then," Wendy said, "what do we have to lose?"

They remained at an impasse for a minute, staring hatefully at each other, awaiting the first move. The Man sparked his prod again, and Charlie yelped at the sight of the blue electricity buzzing at the end.

Finally, Dipper gave in. "All right, dude, you win," he said, throwing his noodle arms in the air. "I'll hand it over."

Wendy's mouth dropped in shock. "Dude, seriously?"

"Sorry, Wendy," Dipper said. "Some things aren't worth getting electrocuted over. Especially one hundred year old microfilm. Besides, Charlie is Mabel's friend," he said, "and we wouldn't want to hurt Mabel."

As he said her name, Dipper shot Mabel a meaningful glance. Mabel still hadn't moved, still seemed fixated on the villain's chrome dome, but in fact took the cue silently, stealthily...

"That's the spirit," the Man said, loosening his grip ever so slightly on Charlie's collar. "Hand it over."

Dipper started making his way across the room, eyes on the cattle prod. Wendy stood back, her arms crossed. She still wasn't sure what Dipper had planned.

"If you think about it," the Man said with the casualness of a certain victor, "you're right, kid. This is a stupid thing to fight over. I mean, like you said, who cares about century-old newspapers?"

"Obviously **someone** would, or you wouldn't be here," Dipper replied. The Man could only nod.

The Man lowered the prod to his side, pushed Charlie forward into Wendy's arms. Dipper handed him the microfilm...

And the man fell backwards with a grunt and a thud.

Wendy and Charlie looked over and saw Mabel reeling in her grappling hook. She beamed before tucking it away, then rushed over to Charlie's side and hugged him tightly.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" she asked him. "That meanie was going to fry you!"

Charlie looked no more comfortable in Mabel's arms than the Man's. "Thanks, Mabel," he said. "I'm alive, but it would be nice to breathe again."

Mabel didn't get the hint, and hugged him harder. He wheezed in shock and discomfort.

"That was pretty clever, dudes," Wendy said as she gave a golf clap. "Did you plan that or something?"

Dipper shrugged. "Wasn't that hard," he said. "I remember Mabel had the projectile weapon and you had an ax, and it's very easy to get our minds in sync in a panic situation..."

"Twin intuition," Mabel said, finally releasing her grip on the librarian. "Twintuition!"

The two Pines twins did their weird secret handshake and shouted "TWINS!" then laughed. Wendy laughed along with them, though Charlie still seemed too shaken to react.

"At least we know we're on to something big," Dipper said, holding out the microfilm. "Hopefully we can find..."

If Wendy and Dipper had been as genre savvy as they thought they were, they would have expected the Man to wrap his arm around Dipper's torso and pull him to the floor alongside him. Or the microfilm to go flying from Dipper's hand as he fell, rolling across the floor. But they weren't, and it came as an unpleasant surprise.

What happened next was a violent blur. The Man raised himself off the floor and began chasing after the microfilm. Mabel reached for her grappling hook, but the Man punched her in the face, knocking her to the ground with a moan, a trickle of blood coming from her nose. Infuriated watching someone hurt his sister, Dipper wrapped himself around the Man's leg and received a kick to his throat for his trouble.

As he fell back gasping, the Man straightened himself up and turned to Wendy. Then Charlie ran forward and headbutted the villain in his stomach, momentarily winding him.

"You son of a bitch!" Charlie shouted, pounding his chest and stomach and shoulders with feeble nerd fists. Once he regained his breath, the Man easily pushed him off; Charlie stumbled back against the microfilm machine. Wendy moved forward, unsheathing her ax; the Man blocked her blow with his prod, then hit her in the nose with his elbow. Then Charlie tackled him again, his chest running straight into the prod.

The three friends watched in horror as Charlie screamed, 80 volts of electricity shooting through his body. He let up like a giant bug in a polo shirt, drawn to a zapper. Then he fell into a smoking heap onto the ground, twitching uncontrollably. Dipper gasped in shock, Mabel yelped in horror before collapsing back to the floor. The Man shook his head and made towards Dipper next, prod at the ready.

"YOU BASTARD!" Wendy shouted, cracking him over the head with the shaft of her ax. He yelped and cringed as Wendy struck another blow, drawing blood. The Man took a moment to regain control over himself, then kicked Wendy hard in the midsection with his knee.

Wendy doubled over in pain, gasping for breath, dropping her hatchet to the ground. He kicked it out of the way, then reached for his prod and moved towards the redhead...

Dipper sat nearby, watching in horror. His sister was barely moving, Charlie was unconscious or worse, and Wendy was next. He looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon.

At the last possible moment, he saw it - a half-empty water bottle conveniently sitting on the desk. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Dipper scrambled to his feet, trying to ignore the pain that surged through his throat with each breath, grabbed the bottle and threw it towards the Man.

The Man, looming over Wendy, sparked his prod...And the water splashed on his arm.

The Man screamed in shock and agony as his own weapon turned against him, volts surging up and down his body. Wendy managed to crawl out of the way, into Dipper's arms, as they watched him writhe amidst an eerie blue flame. Finally, his finger released on the trigger and he fell backwards onto the floor next to Charlie.

Wendy and Dipper looked at him, then each other, then started crying hysterically in each other's arms. Ordinarily Dipper and Wendy would have joked or brazened their way through it, like a million other frightening situations, but this seemed so much more intense, immediate, personal than most of the other threats they'd faced in the past. What else could they do?

Meanwhile, Mabel managed to crawl over to Charlie, whose clothes still crackled with lingering electricity. Mabel didn't say anything either, just crawled on the young man's chest, the man who'd risked his life for hers, and screamed. Screamed harder and longer than she'd ever screamed since the darkest moments of Weirdmageddon and the worst nightmares she'd had afterwards.

* * *

After a few minutes, Dipper and Wendy managed to regain their composure and led Mabel into Wendy's car. Mabel, however, refused to leave Charlie, and they had to carry him back to the car. He was still alive, thankfully, but his heartbeat remained wild and erratic; every few minutes he twitched or cried out, each strangled yelp stabbing daggers into Mabel's heart.

"Let's get to the shack," Wendy said as she and Dipper climbed into the cab of her car.

"I thought we didn't want to get Stan involved," Dipper said.

"What the FUCK else can we do?" Wendy shouted, louder than she ever admitted. "We can't go to the cops or the hospital with this!" And there was no more discussion as they backed out of the parking lot.

Or the way home, either. Wendy felt embarrassed that she had cried like that in front of Dipper; there's no way he'd still think she was the coolest person he'd ever met after that. Her only consolation is that they'd both bawled their eyes out. And who could blame either of them?

And she still struggled to breathe and sit up straight after her manhandling. That guy was a pro; Wendy wondered if he'd just been playing. He probably could have killed them all if he'd really wanted to. And _that_ , frankly, is what scared her; that mess was him going easy on them.

Mabel rocked back and forth in the backseat, mourning over Charlie who slumped beside her. "Charlie, what did I do, what did I do, what did I do?" she asked, knowing that this wouldn't have happened if she hadn't asked him for help, and that he might not have rushed directly into harm's way if not for her attention and their kiss.

"Mabel, you didn't do anything," Dipper tried assuring her. "It was him." That's all he could muster, and at that moment it didn't do much. Mabel might ordinarily have retreated into Sweatertown, but she couldn't take her eyes off Charlie...

...who finally, as they turned past the cutoff near the Shack, opened his eyes and sputtered a few uneven breaths. Mabel looked over, cried out and clutched his hand as hard she could.

They were all silent for the rest of the ride home. What was there to say?

* * *

Stan's first instinct was to yell at the kids for coming back so late and making a ruckus. But they barely needed to climb out of the truck before he could see something was seriously wrong; he saw frazzled hair and torn shirts and blood, and a half-conscious young man in Dipper and Mabel's arms. He made sure to grab his crossbow from the closet before going out; no telling what trouble was waiting.

"Kids, what's going on?" Stan asked from the doorway. "My God, what happened to you?"

"No time to explain, Stan," Dipper said. He nodded and propped open the door for them to bring their friend inside. They sat Charlie down on a couch, with Mabel fixed to his side, hugging his arm and closing her eyes. Dipper ran over and poured him a glass of water.

"What's wrong with him?" Stan asked, trying to remember where he'd put the first aid kit. "Looks like a shock."

Wendy lifted up his shirt and saw a deep burn across his chest and belly. But he was awake and breathing okay; his heart seemed to be coming back down to normal.

"We had a run-in with a real creep," Wendy said with what understatement she could still muster.

"What creep?" Stan could think of a lot of creeps, none of them good.

Dipper unwound enough to explain. "We've been investigating that break-in at the Historical Center and this guy - Charlie - was helping us do research. Then this older dude with a bald head and a mustache showed up with a cattle prod and attacked us, trying to steal microfilm that we were using."

Ordinarily Stan would have made a crack about this, but the situation was far too serious for that.

"Whoa, a cattle prod?" he asked. "Obviously he wasn't kidding around."

"I'm better off than anyone else here, I think," Dipper muttered. "Mabel and Wendy got blows to the head, and Charlie..."

"Wait, someone **hit** you girls?" Stan's old-timey chivalry, usually submerged beneath sarcasm, surfaced. "What kind of low-down bastard..."

"He didn't do anything we didn't give back to him," Wendy assured Stan.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Stan said, forcing himself to laugh. "If there's anyone who could kick his ass, it would be you, Corduroy."

"You know, Stan, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Wendy couldn't help letting a grin slip over her face.

* * *

The Man parked his car outside the Shack, trying his best to be inconspicuous. His ears still rung, his head still buzzed and his muscles and heart throbbed from the experience at the Museum. All that effort to get outsmarted by some lousy teenagers, two of them girls at that.

Well, from now on he wouldn't be playing nice. He didn't have a firearm on him at the moment, but there were other ways to kill someone...

Then he heard a crash, and saw an arrow jutting through his window. He bolted upright and instinctively exited the car, spotting an older man in a fez and an ill-fitting suit aiming a crossbow at him.

"Next one goes in your balls, _putznasher_ ," Stan Pines said in the raspy, profane Yiddish of his youth.

"You're all making a big mistake," the Man warned, raising his arms.

"Tell me something I _haven't_ heard a million times before," Stan said, somehow sounding both bored and angry. "You messed with my family and their friends, and assholes far more powerful and dangerous than a little prick like you'll ever be learned to regret that." He calmly aimed his crossbow.

"Fine," he said with an air of mock acceptance. "Could you pass a message along to your kids?"

"Unless the message is that you're going to make amends by drinking acid, shove it up your ass!" Stan replied.

"Just tell them that there's no reason to keep looking," the Man said. "My client cares about this stuff, but it's not enough that anyone should get hurt over."

"Well, just a little while ago you thought it was," Stan said. "Now get out of here before I turn you into a pin cushion."

The Man just nodded and slowly got into his car. Stan trained his weapon on him until he drove out of sight, then sighed with relief and worry. Then he sat down on the porch and yawned, hunkering down for a long night's vigil.


	11. Chapter 10

Dipper spent the rest of the night up in his bedroom, rocking back and forth, pacing around, trying to read a comic book, attempting to scribble his thoughts onto paper, but it was all a useless blur, fractured memories of violence and flashes of pain and terror. He knew that it would be awhile before he, or any of them, could move past what they'd just experienced.

He was torn between wishing the Man was dead and realizing that could only lead to more trouble, and also what kind of an awful human being wants another person _dead_? His mind settled, eventually, on hoping that he'd be out of commission for awhile with the damage he received. At least that would give him, Mabel and Wendy time to regroup and hopefully make some more headway on their investigation.

Wendy was in the bathroom taking a long shower, Stan still sat on the porch with the crossbow cradled in his lap, trying his best to stay awake. Ford apparently had gone out that evening after fixing the electricity, and missed what happened.

Poor Mabel was still traumatized, still downstairs with Charlie, sleeping beside him on the couch, gently holding his hand and trying her best to be a comfort as he drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes babbling incoherently, sometimes twitching and trying to stand until Mabel shushed him and forced him back down in the chair. Whether from affection or guilt or fear or a tangled mixture of all three, she refused to leave his side.

Like most of Mabel's crushes, Charlie hadn't rated much in Dipper's mind until tonight, but he couldn't help feeling for a guy who cared enough for Mabel that he'd take a cattle prod in the chest for her. They had one major thing in common, at least. A guy like that deserved better than he had gotten from their acquaintance so far.

Dipper could barely think about what they'd uncovered tonight. It didn't lead anywhere - it was another dead end - but it gave clues and hints as usual. He was intrigued, and now more than ever he knew they were on to something important. But even he, master of the Caesar Cipher and intuitive deduction, couldn't help but grow weary at how he couldn't find anything more than clues. Nothing added up - there was always a page or a file or a single word missing and after tonight's bum steer, he couldn't think of where to begin.

All he knew is that he and his friends had come too far, and couldn't quit now. He just hoped that they felt the same way.

As if in answer, Dipper heard Wendy open the door. She was wearing a bathrobe and her hair was still wet from the shower.

"Hey, Dipper," Wendy said with a guarded grin her on her face. "Can't sleep huh?"

"Can you?" he asked back, absently rubbing his chin and mouth with his fist.

"I mean, I've been through some shit before, but this..."

"...Feels different," Dipper completed her sentence, and the two smiled. She leaned against the doorway.

"How's Mabel doing?" she asked after a pause.

"She's still down there with Charlie. Won't leave his side. It's kinda sweet, but a bit...I dunno, I'm sure she blames herself for what happened?"

"Dude, she knows she shouldn't, right?"

"Right, but it's Mabel. Ever since Weirdmageddon, any time anything bad's happened to me or one of her friends, it's always her fault if she can at all connect it back to herself."

"Well, at least she's physically all right," Wendy said. "I mean, I checked her for a concussion and she seemed fine. I was worried the way that bastard punched in her face, but she mostly seemed dazed more than anything."

"Hey, that's good?" Pause. "What about Charlie?"

"I dunno, dude, I'm not a doctor. The fact that he's moving around at all is good. I think it's as much shock - well, mental shock, I mean, as the electricity at this point."

The air hung heavy with a question that wasn't being asked, feelings that weren't being acknowledged. There was another awkward pause, both avoiding eye contact as they struggled what to say.

"Listen, Dipper," she said. "I really don't want to impose on you, I mean we're friends and everything..."

Dipper scooted to the edge of the bed. "What?" She noticed her eyes glistening with tears as she blushed with embarrassment.

"It isn't something that I'd ask of you unless, you know..."

"What is it, Wendy?"

"I...I don't want to be alone tonight," Wendy choked out, struggling to keep it together. "I mean, that was too...too much, and...I need someone with me."

Dipper must have played this scene a million times in his fantasies, but in the present it didn't bring him any pleasure. He had never seen Wendy cry before tonight, at least outside of her breakups with Robby and Stony and assorted other doofus boyfriends. And that was sadness, not fear.

Certainly he had never seen her so terrified as tonight, knowing both of them had come within a hair's breadth and lucky splash of being rubbed out by someone who knew what he was doing. He needed comfort as much as she did, and since Mabel was downstairs what choice did he have?

"Sure," Dipper said flatly, making room in the bed. Wendy hesitated for a moment, letting her hair down and slipping under the covers.

"You were awesome, tonight, dude," Wendy said, managing to steady her voice.

"So were you," Dipper added, "but you always are." He slipped under the covers himself, trying to position himself carefully. As he pushed his leg down under the blanket, he kicked Wendy's leg by mistake.

"Dude, what is this about?" Wendy demanded, kicking him back.

"I mean, aw man, I'm trying not to make this awkward..." Dipper apologized.

"It's only awkward if you _make_ it awkward, dude!" Wendy chided, smacking him with a pillow.

"I know, but who's better at awkwardness than me?"

"I mean, we both know this isn't a booty call," Wendy said half-joking.

"Darn, because I'm a master of booties," Dipper cracked. It was a feeble joke, but both laughed, both needed to let out some of the tension in a way other than tears that wasn't quite in the other direction.

The two laid down next to each other and Dipper turned out the light. Wendy fell asleep pretty fast, but Dipper laid awake on his back, trying to puzzle out what was happening right now, what this meant for their relationship and whether he could keep his long-simmering feelings to himself.

When Dipper finally fell asleep, he dreamed of electric blue fire raking pitch-black skies, turning Mabel and him into ash. And that wasn't the escape he hoped for.

* * *

Stan kept the Shack closed the following day, to the disappointment of a few Summerweening tourists and Soos. Soos thought was happy to stick around and play card games with Dipper and Wendy all day, telling stories about his date with Melody and his ideas for new exhibits. Soos didn't ask what happened, feeling that he could serve his friends better just by being Soos.

"We are **not** bringing back Questiony the Question Mark!" Stan insisted. "This is not a discussion, Soos."

"But dude, it was a great idea! Just poorly implemented. I mean, no offense Mabel, but imagine if I had worn, like a leotard or an undershirt under that costume. More comfortable _and_ pleasing to the eye!"

"You'd still be a huge doofus in a giant question mark," Stan mumbled, picking some hair out of his Stancakes.

"Grunkle Stan, why do you always have to kill fun?" Mabel asked.

"Watching Soos sweat in a leotard is not my idea of fun."

Mabel had already recovered some of her trademark spunk, only showing a small bruise on her head.

She still spent most of her time around Charlie, showing him her scrapbook and helping him draw up costume designs for Pioneer Days. Charlie seemed amused by all the attention, but couldn't help trying to return to routine.

"You can't go into work today! You **can't**!" Mabel insisted when he tried to leave for work.

"Why not? Best thing for me to do is to get back to normal."

"No, it's not!" Mabel insisted, waving her arms. (Seeing this as he walked past, Dipper knew that his sister was back to something like normal.) "You can't let your emotions get bottled up and pretend last night didn't happen! Feel what you need to feel! Just don't pretend everything is fine when it's not."

"Take it from me, kid," Stan added, "trying to work a normal day at a crime scene is more trouble than it's worth. Especially when you're part of the crime."

Dipper walked past, buttoning up a shirt as he went. He was glad to see Mabel functioning again and Charlie alive, but right now he was more interested in finding Wendy. Naturally she was sitting on the roof with a can of Pit Cola, watching the sun rise over the water tower.

"Hey," Wendy said, waving casually.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting roof time," Dipper said, sitting down next to her.

"Nah, roof time is always better when shared," Wendy said, gesturing for Dipper to sit next to her. They both sipped on a soda and stared ahead, thinking.

"I've been thinking about what you said last night," Wendy said, breaking in the silence. "You're right, it doesn't make any sense why the Northwests would want to cover up someone in my family being a criminal. There has to be more to the story than what we're seeing."

"I know, right?" Dipper said, quietly happy to be talking shop again. "I just wish there were a clue that doesn't disappear when we look at it. At least when I spent that whole summer uncovering the journals, one clue led to another. This is just...whoever was covering it up is doing an amazing job."

"Yeah, I feel like we need somebody who knows more about this than we do," Wendy said. "I mean, Charlie knows his stuff, but he can only give us what he has, and so far that ain't much."

Another pause, as Dipper finished his soda. Then he said:

"Hey, listen, about last night..."

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "Which _part_ of last night?"

Terror clenched Dipper's bowels. Had he said the wrong thing?

Wendy broke out laughing. "Gotcha."

Dipper chuckled feebly, than sputtered, "Look, last night, I mean the bed thing, that wasn't... I mean, we're not..."

"Listen, I'm sorry I put you in that situation, dude," Wendy responded. She raised her hand to her lip and bit her knuckle, again struggling the right words.

"It just...I don't know, I needed someone to keep me company so I didn't completely lose it. It seemed like the right thing to do." Then she added: "Would be lying if I said it wasn't nice, though. You're a real gentleman."

"Yeah..." Dipper sighed, wondering how much of his feelings he could or should admit to.

"I mean, I know you still have feelings for me," Wendy said.

Dilemma solved.

"You're still not any good at hiding it," she smiled. "And I'll say...I could do a lot worse."

Dipper didn't know how to take that answer; for now he smiled and nodded.

"Now I feel like shit about it, though," Wendy said, dangling her leg off the roof. "I'm really sorry. I understand if you..."

"No, don't worry about it," Dipper insisted, even though he was sure that **he** would do plenty of worrying about it in the future. "Last night was intense, we both needed someone to be there. That's all it was."

But they both wondered if it really was.

"Anyway, I'm thinking we should take a day off before we plunge back into mystery hunting," Wendy said, switching topics. "Too much to handle, man. We need to get our bearings before plunging ahead. At least Baldy McBalderson shouldn't bother us for awhile after the pounding we gave him."

"I hope you're right," Dipper murmured. Somehow he didn't feel reassured.

"Well, I'm gonna go talk to Mabel," Dipper said, getting up to leave. "Thanks for, you know, being a friend."

"Any time, dude," Wendy said. "Thanks for being my favorite dork. And thanks not for holding my being a hot mess against me."

"Just so long as it doesn't happen again," he said mock-seriously.

"Deal!" Wendy laughed.

"Yeah." Dipper paused, wanting to get something off his chest that he knew had been bothering Wendy through their whole conversation.

"You know, I don't think any less of you for crying at the Museum," he finally commented. "In case you were worried. You're still the most awesome person I've met. And you always will be."

Wendy just smiled, affecting her habitual coolness.

"I know, dude. Tell me about it some other time."

* * *

By now, Mabel and Charlie were back to sketching costumes. Charlie liked Mabel's simpler ideas, like the olive-brown one she'd done with a pencil the night before, and blanched at her more Mabellian ideas, like the green dress with a heart-flecked skirt, or a red outfit with hot pink bows around the waistline.

"You really think pioneer women would wear something like this?" Charlie asked.

"They would have if they'd thought of it!" Mabel insisted.

"Maybe," Charlie said. "But it's so gauche."

Mabel laughed uproariously. "You can't win an argument with $10 words, Mr. Huston! Imagination beats vocabulary every time!"

Dipper came down and sat down beside them. "Hey guys!"

"Hi, Bro!" Mabel shouted. "We're making the prettiest dresses in the history of the Old West!"

"Reasonable people can disagree," Charlie said politely.

"No they can't!" Mabel said. "Take a look at these, Dip, and wonder how anyone could possibly deny their genius."

Dipper had the same noncommittal reaction he always did when her sister showed him something like this. "I mean, they're certainly...creative."

"That's what I was going for!" Mabel said, pointing both fingers at her brother. "This guy gets it!"

"Okay, okay," Dipper said, pushing her away. "Hey Mabel, can I talk to Charlie for a minute?"

"Sure," she said reluctantly, clasping Charlie's hand. "I need to use the bathroom anyway. Don't go anywhere, Mabel's Fashion Show will be back after these commercial messages."

Dipper scooted next to Charlie, who leaned back and sighed.

"How are you doing, man?" he asked.

"Besides being smothered by your sister? Better than I'd expect to be after getting lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Yeah, I mean...You were pretty badass last night."

"Hey, all I did was get electrocuted."

"No, you saved my sister. You don't know how much that means to me."

"Mabel's given me some idea about that. You guys are the Mystery Twins, or something? That's awesome. I wish my brother and I were that close, but he lives in Minnesota, and is also an asshole."

"What does he do?"

"He's a Math major, I don't fully understand what he's up to, but-" He trailed off.

Dipper decided not to press. "Dude, I know it's not exactly a secret, but Mabel likes you a lot."

"I kinda figured," Charlie said, smiling.

"I mean, this is who she is, for better or worse," Dipper warned him. "She's not going to be any less of a handful the more you get to know her."

"Yeah, and...I mean, it's a bit much to take in," he said, gesturing at the dresses though he more meant what happened the night before. "But she's a very special girl and...I mean, I like her too."

Dipper smiled. "Well, my sister could do a lot worse than you." And has. She's fallen for mermen and vampires and gnomes and..."

"Sometimes I wonder if that's a phase all teenage girls go through," Charlie wondered. "My brother had a girlfriend who was obsessed with Twilight in high school. Of course, she never met a _real_ vampire, so..."

Charlie noticed Dipper fidgeting. "What's on your mind, Dipper?"

"After last night...Look man, I'm sorry you got caught up in this. You've already been a huge help to us, and I don't think Mabel or I could ask any more of you than we already have. So, I mean, I understand if you want to bail on this investigation."

Charlie's eyes went wide. "Dude, are you kidding? This is amazing stuff!"

To Dipper's surprise, the usually demur young man became animated.

"I mean, I love my work, but usually the most exciting finds we have end up in the newspaper. Now we're uncovering mysteries and corruption and, you know, battling evil guys with ugly mustaches, and - wow! What else could I ask for!"

Dipper stared; that wasn't quite the reaction he was expecting.

"So, you're going to help us out?"

"No question, Dipper!" he said. "Anything I can do. Only, if I could please avoid getting electrocuted again..."

"No promises," Dipper said, and the two laughed.

"Get the Hell off my TV, Northwest," Stan shouted from the den.

Dipper and Mabel bolted into the den, in time to see a political ad coming on television. Wendy, walking past, just grunted "Ugh!" and marched back to the kitchen.

Naturally, it was Preston Northwest, as arrogant and preening as ever, mingling with crowds while visibly suppressing the urge to wipe himself off after each handshake. Some people never changed.

NARRATOR: Preston Northwest believes that the two-party system is bad for America and bad for Oregon.

PRESTON: All we get from Democrats and Republicans is gridlock and mutual hatred. They only care about their donors, their parties and themselves.

NARRATOR: But Mr. Northwest is different. Businessman. Philanthropist. Proud father [quick shot of Pacifica, just long enough to make Dipper's heart flutter with dread] and husband [shot of Priscilla in a hardhat meeting bean farmers]. A real Oregonian from one of the state's founding families. A man you can trust to:

 **"Make Oregon the Best."**

* * *

 _Author's note: sorry for the slow burn chapter and the ship teasing. After the intensity of the past few chapters (and there's plenty more ahead), I wanted to write something more laid-back and character driven. Thanks again to everyone who's following, reading and reviewing!_


	12. Chapter 11: 1919

**March 1st, 1919**

For all his bravado, Thad Northwest didn't like formal speechmaking. He certainly didn't like giving speeches to his father's well-heeled executives, dressed in a borrowed suit like a trained monkey. And he _despised_ giving speeches before his father, a desiccated old man who thought an ugly green suit and a perpetual scowl conveyed dignity rather than constipation. But things were growing increasingly worse with Northwest Lumber Company, and Thad felt someone needed to take action.

Sometime during the war years, a logger named Michael Danforth died when a tree fell over on him; a common enough accident in this line of work. But the Northwest Lumber Company refused to pay his young widow her husband's pension, on the grounds that Michael hadn't been employed long enough. In fact, he only needed to have lived another six days for it to have kicked in. Try telling that Dylan Northwest, who had recently told a newspaperman that "I owe my workers nothing."

There was talk of a strike immediately afterwards, led by Michael's best friend Gerald Stoller, but it fizzled out. No one wanted to seem unpatriotic in war time, and to counter Stoller's agitation, one of the loggers began recruiting people into a group called the Four L's, pledging unconditional patriotism (which, of course, they conflated with loyalty to Dylan Northwest). That soldiers and National Guardsmen on their way to the front often passed through the camps further brought home the potential threat of violence. There was always the chance that their guns and bayonets would turn against their countrymen.

Gerald Stoller persisted, though, vowing that there would be a strike, also hinting at "other means" of getting the company to listen. With no one standing behind him, he became an easy target. In August 1917, three masked goons broke into his home, dragged him outside in his underwear and carried him into the woods in front his screaming wife and crying children. He was found two days later, beaten and hanged from a railroad trestle several miles outside of town, with a sign reading "Slacker" around his chest.

After that, there was no more talk of a strike in Gravity Falls. At least, until Rick Corduroy came home.

Dylan Northwest, for all his callousness, did not completely lack a heart. He had attended funerals of several of his employees over the years, and tried to ensure an affordable company store and living conditions for them. In an act of charity he never ceased to mention, he even paid medical bills for the child of a logger who needed a life-saving operation, once upon a time. He served honorably in the Spanish-American War despite being exempt from military service, fighting in the Philippines and once refusing orders from an unscrupulous major to massacre civilians. And he donated heavily to local institutions, including the library, hospital and several schools.

But like many tycoons of his era, he vacillated between doting sentimentality and reactionary violence. Any talk of raising wages or better working conditions and he flew into a violent rage; hadn't he already given them _enough_? No longer the high-minded philanthropist, he hired Pinkertons and cold-blooded killers from out of state, armed with repeating rifles and accountable to none but him. He might mourn a worker who died in a logging accident, but he could utter a satisfied "Good!" when a troublemaker like Gerald Stoller met an untimely demise. He happily bribed local officials to make sure no one could cut into his monopoly, whether another timber company or uppity workers or Rooseveltian trustbusters.

Thad Northwest, on the other hand, was born to luxury and hadn't even sentimental use for workers. He disliked his father's actions less for their sporadic cruelty than that he was inconsistent and stupid. He had tried telling his father this in private, but Dylan Northwest listened to no man, least of all his son. He gambled that, in public, in front of shareholders and directors, his father wouldn't be so curt.

"Gentlemen," he began, looking over the old men staring skeptically at him, "as my father's said, the situation in our camps grows more difficult. There isn't a day that goes by without a cross word being said or a foreman being threatened. And-" reaching into his coat - "I found THIS the other day!"

He pulled out a pamphlet and passed it down the table.

"The IWW, the most radical labor union in the country, has come to Gravity Falls. This pamphlet was found left in the mess hall at our camp the other day. It exhorts the workers of America to follow their brethren in Russia and seize the means of production. And I don't think I need remind anyone what that means."

The corporation heads roused themselves from their stoicism to fear, offended by the very whiff of Communism. Only Dylan Northwest remained impassive, apparently staring into space as his son talked. Thad felt a stab of resentment, which encouraged him to press on more urgently, more angrily.

"During the war we of the American Protective League protected the country from Prussian militarism," he continued, inflating his efforts kicking plump shopkeepers into the mud into heroism worthy of Alvin York. "Now we face an enemy far more insidious. You can usually tell a German from an American, but Bolshevism is worse. It's not a nationality but a disease that can infect anyone - friends, neighbors, family, even your employees. Unless it's stopped at the root."

Awakened from their initial hostility, the men now stared with rapt attention, hanging on his every word.

"The days of breaking a strike with soldiers and imported goons needs to end," Thad said. At this implied insult, his father shot daggers from across the room. Thad smiled but went on without skipping a beat. "Men with no connection to the community shooting down Gravity Falls' citizens isn't going to win us any sympathy, it might even turn people who don't give a damn about strikes and logging against us. I propose disbanding these men and sending them home."

One man, Charles Donovan, bolted out of his seat. "That's outrageous!" he began. "Are you suggesting we leave ourselves defenseless?"

"Sit down, Charles," Dylan said. His first words at the meeting. He inclined his head towards son, expression unchanged but his gestures now approving.

"The best way to handle this is to inoculate the community," Thad continued. "Make it a slur to wear the union label. Make it unpatriotic to ask for change. Turn Gravity Falls against the workers by embracing the workers. And we can start by hiring them to police the camps."

Again, there was some consternation. Mr. Morrison, the camp's foreman, stood up, bearing a smug look on his mutton-chopped face.

"Young Mr. Northwest," he said, hitching up suspenders, "we all appreciate your _outsider's_ insight into what we're doing wrong, but I think those of us who've spent decades in this business understand it better. (Some grumbles and "hear, hears" from his colleagues.) Putting armed men from town into the camps would be disastrous! Do you really think that they'd fire on their friends and neighbors?"

Morrison preened as if he'd won the argument. Thad didn't even look at him as he replied.

"Mr. Morrison's service to my father's company has been loyal and effective," he said, "and we all value his opinion and experience. But I think he misses my point. Look at it the other way round - how eager will the workers be to strike if they'll be fighting their friends and neighbors? How much will they want to fight if their brother's carrying the gun? They couldn't strike without tearing the community apart."

He watched and felt a stab of pride as the directors' faces turned from skepticism to understanding.

"So a class war becomes a civil war," Charles Donovan chuckled. "Very clever, young man."

Thad nodded appreciatively, and the room broke into applause. Even Mr. Morrison reluctantly clapped as he sank into his chair.

Only his father remained impassive. Damn him, Thad thought as he sat back down.

* * *

It didn't take long for Thad's ideas to go into effect. The first was to bring back the old 4L company union, which had briefly lapsed since war's end. They found few takers, as people in the logging camps were gathering around Rick Corduroy, who was emerging as the camp's leader. Not out of any great skill or desire on his part, merely because a war hero makes good press. Thus explained Bob Christiansen, a nebbish Swede with a slight lisp and pince nez glasses whom everyone called "Comrade."

"You see, no one takes me seriously because I'm a socialist and I say so," he told Rick one day. "I pass out a pamphlet, they crumple it up. Oh, it's Comrade Christiansen at it again! Take your revolution and shove it! But you, Rick Corduroy, are all-American hero. You say something, they'll listen to you."

Rick organized a few small meetings in a shack outside town. At first they only hosted a few people, twelve at most, including John Cox, who mostly sat and glowered as Christiansen bored everyone with rehashed bits of Frederick Engels. Rick didn't care much about the One Big Union or the Worker's State or all this ideological horse shit that Bob vomited, but it sounded good and if it helped the workers, he didn't mind.

Rick wasn't much of an orator, but his plainspoken toughness reached the workers better than high-minded appeals to a Classless Society.

At one meeting he told the gathering, "All I know about workers is that we work ten hours a day, six days a week, sometimes more, even though we're supposed to be working eight hour days according to law. And our President and our Governor are too concerned with phantom Reds to enforce their own laws.

"Well, I served in France as you all know, and I fought and bled and killed for this country. I don't regret it one bit - be happy to do it again, if I had to. But I didn't fight to make rich men richer or to let Dylan Northwest and his son control our lives and our thoughts and everything about us. That's what we were fighting against in France, and by God it's not happening here!"

Still, Rick showed up to work every day. He refused to allow his workers to sabotage construction and logging equipment, warning that he didn't want to give the Northwests any excuse to crack the truncheon on their heads. Logging went on, trees fell, wages were paid, tensions remaining below the surface.

One Portland Wobbly met Rick at a meeting and was unimpressed with his ideological ignorance and lack of sophistication, his filthy flannel overalls and grumbled speech. Afterwards this comrade mocked him as "a walking folktale," but Bob Christiansen insisted "he's a real hero and the best we've got."

Eventually, Rick's meetings started attracting more attention. Sometimes a heckler would show up to challenge Rick as a radical, only to be shouted down or even beaten by his fellow loggers. There was no question that most of them were Thad Northwest trying to break up a growing threat, but they were easily ignored.

They had other tricks, of course. The American Legion established a post in Gravity Falls in mid-February, and everyone expected Rick to be its first member, perhaps even its Commander. But Orson Sprott, the local farmer who founded the chapter, barred entry to Rick Corduroy, Gravity Falls' own hero as an un-American troublemaker.

Punching Sprott in the face didn't make Rick feel any better. Neither did alcohol, nor the comfort of his friends and siblings, nor the dozens of townspeople who turned out to protest the decision.

Dix Durland, who had tried to open a tannery in town and watched it fold, tried sticking up for him. "Nobody in this whole dang town is more patriotic than Rick Corduroy, and he has the wounds and medals to prove it!" he insisted at a meeting of the Legion. But Lieutenant Sprott was adamant, more so after their confrontation, and Rick remained barred.

Dix was upset, but more upset that his career wasn't working out. So he started spending his free time at the Legion post, and Rick and John saw him less and less over time.

Nor did Becky Mercer seem receptive to his advances, or even his friendship. "Whatever we had is long since over," she told Rick one day when he visited her at her shop. "I'm engaged to Thad Northwest now, and that is that."

"What do you even see in that goldbrick bastard?" Rick demanded. "All he does is prance around his father's shop and pretend he's a patriot for rolling shopkeepers in the mud."

"Maybe that's true," Becky said, folding clothes as she talked, "but he's also the son of the town's richest man."

"Is that all?" Rick said. "My God Becky - Rebecca," he hastily corrected, remembering that she now insisted on her full name. "Do you even love him? Does he make you feel happy or give you anything at all? I don't even know if that bastard is _capable_ of feeling!"

"That's just it - you don't know him at all," Becky insisted, refusing to make eye contact. "He has his coarse side, but so do you. And besides, at least he's not a Bolshevik!"

Rick was shocked, angry, _furious_ at this woman he'd known and loved for so long calling him that word. He smashed his hand on Becky's counter, loud and hard enough to make her scream.

"That's what everyone thinks of me, huh?" Rick raged, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "That I hate my country, that I want to call people comrade and blow up John Rockefeller and Woodrow Wilson and make everyone a slave to Lenin. Do you know how _stupid_ that sounds? Me, a Bolshevik! All I want is a decent day's pay for a decent day's work for me and my friends!"

"Maybe there's a way to achieve that without causing trouble," Becky said. "Or organizing meetings, or holding strikes, or-"

"No one's talking about a strike," he lied, though he knew that different people at the camp had been whispering about it for months.

Becky seemed near tears. "I wish we could part as friends," she said, fixing her gaze with as much dignity as she could muster, "but I don't think under the present circumstances that's advisable."

Rick looked down and laughed, a deep chortling grunt. "Jesus, they have you talking like a goddamned lawyer." He spun a mannequin around and walked out of the store. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, then continued, muttering something indiscernible under his breath.

After he left, Becky broke down crying.

* * *

Finally, on March 3rd, two days after Thad gave his speech to the Northwest Board of Directors, Rick held a meeting in his home, with his brother looking eagerly on and his sister toiling quietly in the background. John Cox was there, quiet and devoted as always, as was the loudmouthed Swede Bob Christiansen and a half-dozen others. After a small dinner and coffee, they organized and determined upon.

"We're going to present a petition to Old Man Northwest," Christiansen said. "Demanding that he adhere to an eight hour day as guaranteed under law and that he raise our wages and pension benefits. And allow us to form a formalized union. Otherwise, we strike, we sabotage -"

"No sabotage," Rick grumbled.

"Otherwise, we strike, we obstruct the work, we make it impossible for Northwest to make money."

"Hear, hear," someone rumbled.

Scott Lodge, a bulky, freckled young logger, stood up, eager for action. "When do we go, Rick?"

"We'll present the petition in a few days," he said, stretching out on the couch. "Give him a few days to chew it over. Then next week, we'll start squeezing him."

"Well, my friends in conspiracy," Bob Christiansen joked, "I know you don't like Comrades - we are embarking on a dangerous journey. It will however be the first step on the road to equality and justice. And-"

"Can't you stop making speeches for one night?" Gene Black, another logger, interrupted to general laughter.

"Plenty of time for speeches later," Rick said. "Right now, let's drink a toast."

They all stood up dramatically.

"To friends, present and absent, for a better Gravity Falls and fair employment," Rick said. "And a better world, I suppose, though I'd be happier with a better home."

Laughter.

"How's that for oratory?" he asked Bob, who grinned self-consciously.

"Since we're not Wobblies and we're not in the UWWW, and we're sure as hell not the 4L's, what are we?" Bob Black asked.

"Do we have to _be_ anything?" someone else asked.

"How about the Gravity Falls Lumber Collective?" Bob proposed.

"Still too Bolshie," Gene insisted.

"The Gravity Falls Union?"

"Still too inclusive."

"The Timber Wolves!" another logger chimed in.

"Too melodramatic," Gene complained.

It was Scott Lodge who introduced a fallen friend.

"How about Friends of Gerald Stoller?" he asked.

"All right, Friends of General Stoller!" Rick roared. "I will drink to that!"

Because Bob was Bob, he made sure that his proposed name came out first, though Rick publicly repudiated it And ever afterwards, in newspaper articles, history books and even friendly labor pamphlets, it remained the Collective.

* * *

The next day, the loggers found locks on the gates to the camp entrance, and a dozen new armed guards with modern rifles. Unlike the faceless Pinkertons they'd come to expect and despise, they recognized many of them instantly. Lieutenant Sprott was one of them, wearing his army uniform and still spouting a black eye. That didn't surprise Rick at all. But Chet Carson, a local farmer he'd known since childhood? Then Tom Scott, Dorothy's former fiancee, next to him.

"What the hell's going on?" one of the loggers asked.

"Tom, what in tarnation?" Gene Black asked his friend, who didn't say a word.

And then, at the end of the line, stood Dix Durland cradling a rifle, lip quivering as he tried not to make eye contact with Rick or anyone else. Rick came up to him and fixed him a betrayed glower.

"All right, you bums, clear out." They turned and saw Mr. Morrison walking up, flanked by two armed guards.

Rick turned to face the foreman. "What the hell is this?"

"Rick Corduroy, I like you, always have," the foreman said. "You're a hard worker but you're also a troublemaker. And let's get this through your thick head." He drew close to the redheaded lumberman, pulling out the pamphlet Thad had given him the night before.

"We're not gonna stand for any troublemakers," he rasped. "No Bolshevism in Gravity Falls."

Then he raised his voice and shouted loud enough for everyone to hear. "This camp is closed, and you are all fired effective immediately." Then, with dissonant cheeriness: "Best of luck to you all."

Angry growls and threats, but a dozen rifles cocked and aimed silenced them. Sullenly, they started to pace away - all except Rick, who stood fuming in front of the foreman. He contemplated sinking his ax into Morrison's head right then and there, but convinced himself that wasn't the answer. All that would achieve was a dead Rick Corduroy, and that wouldn't help anyone - least of all himself or his family.

Slowly he turned and followed his workers down the path, knowing that the battle they'd so long dreaded had begun. Gravity Falls was at war.

 _Author's note: A heavy chapter and after several consecutive days of writing, it seems like a good place for a short break. Thanks for reading and see you later this week!_


	13. Chapter 12

**July 1st, 2018**

It was just after midnight, and Ford Pines crouched in a field somewhere in Clatsop County, about half an hour south of Astoria. He had a camera and a notepad with him, with his trusty magnet gun. He'd read reports of anomalies in the area, UFO sightings accompanied by strange creatures and a reported werewolf attack. Naturally he assumed they were connected; he was staking out the location where they'd been seen most often. The field had a low clearing surrounded by bushes, with a small herd of deer grazing unaware of his presence.

Ford had been waiting there nearly two hours since sundown when he received a phone call. Fortunately, the deer took only the briefest of notice as he answered it.

"Stanley, I'm kind of in the middle of something," he said in a whisper, watching intently for signs of the elusive creature.

"Nice talking to you too, Ford," Stan grunted. "Listen, while you've been out in the woods frolicking with wildlife, some bald psychopath tried to murder the kids."

This got Ford's attention; he turned away from the field, unconsciously raising his voice.

"Bald psychopath? Are they okay?"

"They got beaten up a little but they're doing fine," Stan said. "Physically, anyway."

"Stan, I know it's not your style, but why don't you call the police?" Ford asked irritably. "If it's just a case of assault..."

"Well, for one thing, Dr. Science, it wasn't 'just a case of assault.' The kids were investigating some kind of mystery at the Museum in town and he attacked them. With a goddamn cattle prod. Fried one of Mabel's friends half to death and beat up them and Wendy, too. _Then_ he showed up here, and I had to chase his ass away with my crossbow. Don't know who or where he is, but he seems to mean business."

Ford one of the deer disappearing into the grass with a shriek. The others bolted as their herd mate met its fate.

"Secondly, the cops might be in on it," Stan continued. "Remember the break-in there a few weeks back? Now I'm no detective, but the whole set-up seems pretty fishy to me. Plus they got Toby Determined thrown in prison."

"That's not surprising," Ford murmured. His acquaintance with Toby hadn't been the happiest part of his Gravity Falls experience.

"Not for what you'd think," Stan replied. "They're saying he broke into the Museum, zapped the cops and then himself."

"That doesn't make any sense," his brother said.

"We _know_ it doesn't make sense, Ford. We're way ahead of you on that front."

The grass rustled intently as the strange, alien predator bared down on Ford. Heavy breathing, sounding like a tiger's wheezing chuff fed through a tremolo, grew louder as it approached Ford.

"Look Stanley, I'm sorry to hear about the kids and I'm glad they're okay, but I'm on to something more earth-shattering than some third-rate burglary..."

Ford didn't seem to notice as the creature made a _RAAAH!_ hissing noise, just feet away.

"Ford, I ordinarily wouldn't give a damn about petty crimes, either. Even if the kids are right and it has something to do with this Senate race. Maybe _especially_ then. But that bastard, whoever he is and whoever he's working for, tried to hurt the kids and their friends and I'm not going to let that stand."

Ford stroked his chin thoughtfully. If there was one thing he genuinely admired about his brother, it was his loyalty.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked after a long moment.

"I think we should help take over the investigation for now, at least until the kids are back on their feet. I don't want them in any more trouble, especially if there's a goon out there trying to kill 'em off."

Ford considered this, as his peripheral vision registered a large silhouette raising slowly out of the field.

"I'll be home in a day or two, Stanley," he jabbered hurriedly. "We'll take care of it then."

Just as Ford finish his sentence, the Alien Werewolf attacked! It reared up out of the field into the moonlight, a queer admixture of biological components - shiny green skin tufted with gray fur, white fangs and gnarled claws, black eyes with red spots dilating. It howled an unearthly shriek as it bounded for the scientist, who until now had seemed barely to notice its presence.

At the last second, Ford reached for his magnet gun and fired.

Stan heard both the gun's howling _wrrrrrr_ and the creature's resulting, earsplitting shriek over the phone.

"Eeeesh!" Stan said, hanging up. He could always count on his brother to be noncommittal.

* * *

Later that day, back in Gravity Falls the gang enjoyed a hot, muggy Sunday at the lake. Their exile had extended to a long weekend, but no one seemed to mind. Except Stan, who seemed chagrined as always at the prospect of lost profits, and wasn't happy that Mabel had roped him and Dipper into a reunion of Love Patrol Alpha the night before, to Wendy and Charlie's amusement.

Today Dipper was trying to impress Wendy with his swimming skills, which he had picked up in the past few years at school. Stan had to admit the kid had a pretty good form in the water. Wendy, as one might expect, mostly lounged and floated about in her bright red bathing suit, alternately cheering on and playfully mocking her friend. Mabel splashed and treaded water, occasionally popping up to terrorize her brother or Wendy by pretending to be a Gobblewonker or mer-creature (Dipper exasperatedly told her that it stopped being funny after the _twelfth_ time). Charlie sat on the beach reading a biography of Robert McNamara (whom Mabel recognized, curiously enough, because he was a fellow Piedmont High alum long before he started raining bombs on Vietnam).

The kid was an even bigger nerd than Dipper, Stan concluded, shaking his head. At least the sciencey stuff and impossible maths he and Ford read came in handy; Stan had _lived_ through McNamara's time and he didn't want to read about him. But if Mabel and Dipper like Charlie, he can't be all bad. Who was he to judge?

Ordinarily Stan would be back at the Shack and let them have fun without a chaperone; God knows as eighteen year olds they didn't need him around. But he didn't want to take any chances. Mabel had persuaded him not to bring his crossbow along, so he discreetly tucked a .38 into his handbag. Mostly he sat in his beach-chair and browsed through his magazines, keeping one eye peeled for any trouble.

Whatever the kids were on to, he concluded, it was a big deal. That much was obvious - no one would try to kill some teenagers over nothing. He didn't know much about Gravity Falls beyond what he'd experienced personally, and the bits he'd picked up in the journals trying to get his brother back. Dealing with zombies and demons were one thing, but history and crimes that happened a long time ago were beyond his purview. He wouldn't even know where to start.

Fortunately, he had a niece and a nephew who were way smarter and more resourceful than him. They had two friends who, while one was lazy as sin and the other a book-reading loser, would do just about anything for them. And so would he.

And there was always Poindexter, Stan reflected ruefully, if he'd ever get his ass in gear and pay more attention to the family than whatever experiment he was working on. Their reunion and subsequent six years together still hadn't fully resolved that tension.

Still, he would do what he could, Stan concluded, watching wistfully as Mabel yanked her brother underwater, Wendy laughing hysterically. And if nothing else, things could get back to normal tomorrow.

* * *

Ford didn't go back to the Shack right away; that wouldn't have been his style. He stopped by Fiddleford McGuckett's place, the old Northwest Mansion which his friend had converted to a massive research facility. He showed his friend photographs of the Alien Werewolf, along with skin and hair samples. His torn, mud-splattered jacket and mussed hair, unfixed after six hours' drive, bore an even stronger witness.

"I hoped to bag the thing for you," Ford said, "but it only stayed down long enough for me to yank its fur. Powerful son of a bitch he was - nearly ripped my arm off in the process."

"That's all right, Ford," McGuckett told him. "Not sure where I'd put him, anyway - too much valuable equipment here for somethin' so unpredictable."

McGuckett looked a lot more respectable now than he had all those summers ago. He wore a back brace to straighten his posture, his hair and beard were trimmed to respectable length; he wore a dress shirt and khakis today, not feeling the need to wear a lab coat for greeting his friend. He led him past a control panel full of computer gizmos and inter-dimensional readings to his small breakfast nook, where he offered Ford some coffee.

"Anyway, this isn't the main reason I wanted to meet you," Ford said, examining McGuckett's choice of cancer-causing artificial sweeteners with disgust. "You heard this news about."

"Yep, it's all kinds of weird," McGuckett said. "Though not the kind of weird that you and I are used to, the kind you can measure and calculate. Just the kind that don't make sense."

"I didn't think so either," Ford admitted, reluctantly pouring some of the pink sweetener into his drink. "But there's someone out to hurt the kids for snooping too much."

"Dipper and Mabel, y'mean?" McGuckett asked quizzically. He drank his coffee black, Ford noticed, which explained a lot.

Ford nodded. "All I gathered from talking to Dipper is that it has something to do with the labor unrest in the early 20th Century," he said. "I gave Dipper my history of Gravity Falls and it was missing a page that explained what was going on."

"Y'mean the bombings and strikes and stuff?" McGuckett said.

"I vaguely recall reading something about that," Ford said. "I was never interested in that sort of history, per se, but it helps to have an understanding of everything that went into the making of this town. There was a bombing that almost killed a Northwest, done by local loggers, wasn't there?"

" _Blamed_ on local loggers," McGuckett corrected. "Many people had their doubts 'cause of the climate of the time. There was somethin' called the American Protective League which the government organized during World War I to keep watch on German spies and draft dodgers - sort of a citizen's FBI. Thad Northwest, the younger of the family, was the head of our local chapter and they spent the war harassing German citizens and 'slackers.' A lot of those folks worked as strikebreakers after the war - moved from one hate to another, bashin' uppity strikers and union workers."

"The official history of Gravity Falls doesn't really go into that time period at all," Ford said. "Which is strange. Even in the airbrushed official versions that accept Nathaniel Northwest as the town founder - at least they go into a lot of detail, even if most of it's fabricated. But this whole period of time seems to be blotted out."

"What I know about it is that it's ugly and violent," McGuckett responded. "A lot of people don't want that kind of thing dredged up - it was forgotten in a collective bout of amnesia. Too many families and prominent people were involved and it don't make any of them look good." He smiled. "Too bad the Society of the Blind Eye wasn't around back then, they could have helped."

"Well, someone didn't figure on Dipper and Mabel Pines," Ford said with not a small hint of pride. "Do you have any suggestions where to start?"

McGuckett leaned back, thinking. "I have two books you might wanna take a look at," he said after a moment. "One's the 'orthodox' version you can find in yer local library. The other's the sort of book that you have to do a lot of digging to find."

McGuckett led Ford into his cavernous library. Where the Northwests had used it mainly for show, filling it with family portraits and fake book spines, McGuckett filled it with encyclopedias, books about history and science and all sorts of weirdness, along with personal notes and findings in notebooks and binders. In a single, uncharacteristic touch of vanity he had an official portrait of himself as a young man hanging between two bookshelves.

"Here's the one," McGuckett said, tossing the book into his friend's hand. It was a well-bound, officious-looking book by an author named Aaron A. Fony, entitled _Trials, Tribulations and Terror:_ _Central Oregon During the Progressive Era, 1900-1920_.

As for the other...McGuckett pulled out a musty-looking book with a cheap Photoshop cover featuring a Wobbly cartoon of an improbably chiseled worker. The author's name was Howard Z. Crank, the book entitled _Gravity Falls at War: Oregon's Forgotten Labor Conflict, 1918-1919_. Ford opened the book and several pages fell out. He sighed as he bent to pick them up.

"Thanks, Fiddleford, this is perfect," he said, laying the two books out before him. He pulled out a notepad and pencil and started skimming through them each. Despite all his scholar's instincts, he had a strange feeling that Mr. Crank's book would be the more reliable.

* * *

 _Author's note: Relatively short chapter; mainly I wanted to get the Stans into the story rather than leaving them on the periphery. Thanks again to everyone for reading, especially fereality and Pkaz for taking the time to review the past few chapters!_


	14. Chapter 13

Wendy's first problem on Monday wasn't resolving the assorted messes from the weekend or diving back into the investigation or even (God forbid) looking for work, as her dad had started suggesting. It was Graham.

She tried not to think too much about what had happened with Dipper over the weekend, trying to write it off as one of those regrettable things that happened under certain odd circumstances and _probably_ wouldn't happen again. She might even have succeeded, if her boyfriend hadn't reared his... not ugly, but unduly swollen head and tracked her down when she went into town for her morning coffee.

"Wendy, what gives?" he said, stepping into her path. "I've been trying to call you all weekend! Didn't get my calls? My texts? Where were you?"

Wendy shrugged. "Sorry, dude, this weekend was kind of intense."

"You were hanging out with those little friends of yours, right?" he said.

"Hey, they're eighteen. Show some respect."

He laughed bitterly. "That's rich coming from you. You blow me off to go chase ghosts or whatever with some weird teenagers and you ask me for 'respect'? Maybe start treating your boyfriend with some respect first, Wendy."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay," Wendy insisted, gritting her teeth. He had a point about this weekend, but after everything that had happened over the past week, she wasn't in anywhere near the mood for one of his habitual self-pitying ego trips. "I shouldn't have blown you off, you're right. We were investigating..."

"What on _Eart_ h could you have been investigating?" Graham asked, reacting as if she'd told him they were eating mushrooms on the Moon. "Whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't, like, the Pentagon Papers or the President's tax returns or something like that. I'm about to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime and you'd rather play alien hunter with some psycho kids."

Something in Wendy snapped. She'd put up with these self-impressed whines for the longest time, but now it had veered into outright insults of her and her friends - enough!

"Jesus Christ, Graham!" Wendy exploded. "I'm sorry that I didn't call you! I'm sorry that I wanted to see friends that I only get to see, like, for a few months a year instead of a dude I can hang out with any time! I'm sorry that our mystery hunting probably won't win us a Pulitzer Prize! And I'm really sorry that I'd spend _any_ time doing _any_ thing other than basking in the glory that is you!"

Graham's face contorted into a weird grimace, not the hurt that she might have expected. This mollified any regrets Wendy might have held.

"Well, at least you've shown your true colors," Graham said, crossing his arms smugly. "I thought you were someone I could share my work with, someone who could appreciate the serious things in life, instead of a silly, flannel-wearing bitch who..."

Wendy slapped him across the face. Suddenly he crumpled, his face flushing red. Wendy felt a pang of remorse, until he re-hardened his face into menace - an expression she hadn't seen before.

"You'll pay for that," he rasped. Wendy grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him close; she wasn't screwing around with this guy anymore.

"Tell ya what, Graham, you've had that and more coming for a long time," she said as calmly as circumstances allowed. "I'll lay it on the line for you: if you ever call me a bitch again, I'll kick your balls until they break. Call me stupid again, and I'll gut punch you until you shit yourself. Make fun of my friends again, and you'll be lucky if you walk again. Heck, I'm debating whether or not to rip out your throat if I ever _see_ you again."

She shoved him away, and Graham staggered backwards, struggling to take it in. He seemed terrified of her, and Wendy couldn't blame him.

"But you're right, I should have taken your calls," Wendy said, half-apologetically. "I'm sorry, my bad."

Then she smirked and walked off, past Graham who shot daggers as she walked past. She felt less triumphant than relieved.

"Well, that's _one_ less asshole in my life," she muttered to herself. She didn't need a boyfriend who constantly belittled and nagged her, and she really didn't put much stock in his threats of revenge. What could one sad little nerd with a superiority complex do to her, a scathing article in the student newspaper?

* * *

That Tuesday, Mabel decided to let Dipper and Ford focus on the mystery for now. She and Charlie had Pioneer Days to worry about!

In recent years, Pioneer Days had expanded from a celebration of the town's founding to a multi-day festival. Mayor Cutebiker reasoned that it was a good way to git tourist dollars, and vendors, historical re-enactors and volunteers flooded from all over the county - all over the state! - to participate. As Mabel walked through town, she saw carpenters and workers already erecting booths and stands and a stage for the main festivities. Crepe paper and decorations were already popping up everywhere.

It was Mabel's dream come true! If she had the time or the authority, she would design the whole festival into something flashier and more exciting. But this year, at least, she'd settle for the costuming department.

Charlie's boss Mary approved her dress designs, and gave her a small stipend to buy fabric and designs from Mercer's Fabric in town. It was a small family store run by a woman named Jenny Mercer; her twenty-ish daughter, Isabel, was Charlie's friend and liked to help out with the festivities.

As Mabel entered the store, she was struck by the colorful summer dress designs, and a small array of pioneer dresses on the racks, a huge select of fabrics, yarns and other bric-a-brac off to the right. She was in Heaven.

"Can I help you, young lady?" a cheerful middle-aged woman, tall and thin in a light brown blouse with graying brown hair, asked. Mabel assumed this was Jenny.

"Hi, I'm Mabel Pines! Charlie Huston sent me from the Historical Center to pick up some fabrics for our dresses." She waved her check around in excitement, then spotted the most dazzling pink dress with embroidery on a rack before her. She squealed and ran over to it, hugging it.

"This is amazing!" she marveled. "And it looks and feels so...delicate! Is it made of silk?"

"Close," a younger voice answered. "It's made from a very sheer kind of cotton." She turned to see a cheerful young woman in a black top and a frilly blue skirt; aside from her age, she was the spitting image of Jenny. This must have been Isabel.

"Hi, I'm Mabel!" she said again. "I love your skirt and your top and-" She struggled not to squeal again. "This place must have everything."

"I'm Isabel," the girl laughed. "Nice to meet you." She squinted at Mabel for a moment. "Although...I'm pretty sure we've met before."

"Probably!" Mabel said. "I've been coming here with my twin brother for the past six years. Our Great Uncle Stan runs the Mystery Shack! Well, technically Soos runs it, but he still owns the property."

"Oh yeah, I remember, all that mess six summers ago." Isabel shuddered at the memory of spending several days as a statue, something that still gave her and her mom nightmares. "Well, never mind all that," she said with a wave. "What can I do for you _today_?"

Mabel handed her a list of materials she and Charlie had come up with. "We're going to make some nifty dresses from scratch this year," Mabel said. "And we only have three days to get everything ready!"

"You'll have a lot of sewing to do!" Isabel told Mabel. "Maybe I can help out? I'm sure my mom wouldn't mind, we've been pretty slow this week." She walked towards the back, leaving Mabel to survey the glorious fabrics and beautiful designs around her.

Mabel again tried to keep herself from squealing. Not only had she made a boyfriend this summer (if that's what Charlie was?), now she'd met someone she already loved almost as much as Candy and Grenda. As wonderful as those girls were, they didn't work in a place quite this glamorous.

After a moment, Isabel returned with several swaths of fabric in tan, light blue, light brown, red and white.

"Here's enough to get started," she said. "And we have a special sewing room in the back. Let's go!"

"Sounds like a plan!" Mabel shouted. She ran past Isabel in excitement, racing around until she realized that she didn't know where the sewing room was...

* * *

"Hey Wendy, didn't know you were coming over today."

Wendy groaned as she entered her parents; she saw Dan sitting at the kitchen table, digging his fork into a rancid puddle of alleged meat, gnarly potatoes and inedible gravy. Wendy's stomach churned just watching him shovel it into his mouth.

"Dad, is that one of those Full Lunches?" Wendy asked. "Like, at least get soup or a TV dinner or something edible instead of those slimy things!" She'd eaten way too many of those as a kid and thought they weren't fit for dog food, let alone human consumption.

"Sorry Wendy Girl, we're out of pizza and I'm not in the mood to cook a chicken," he said through globs of potatoes.

"Like those are your only options," Wendy said, leaning against the counter. "Ever heard of a sandwich? Besides, I hate to be the one to bring it up, but you're starting to get up there in years, and those things have like, killer amounts of sodium..."

"How have things been?" her dad asked, eager to change the subject from his impending mortality.

Wendy didn't particularly want to tell him about her weekend; too much detail would send him off on a roaring rampage of revenge without a clear target. Nor did she want to get into her thing with Dipper again. She certainly didn't want to think about how she'd spent the night before screaming into her pillow about Graham's petty obnoxiousness, wondering how and why she _always_ fell for the worst guys in the history of Planet Earth.

"Meh, I spent the weekend with Dipper and Mabel," she said evenly. "They're doing one of their mystery quests, and I'm trying to keep 'em in line. As usual."

"Find anything interesting?" Dan asked.

"Not yet," Wendy said. "Mostly historical stuff."

"Ah," he said. "Actually, I remember that you'd been askin' me about Rick Corduroy. And you sent me those pictures the other day - really cool! Well, I have something I wanted to show you"

"What's that?"

"Let's go into the den." Dan tossed his empty food pouch in the general direction of the garbage can, splattering the wall with potatoes and gravy. Wendy groaned, cleaned it up and threw it away.

Dan was already sitting in his easy chair with a large manila envelope. "Our conversation reminded me that my cousin Eddie Corduroy in Fargo did a lot of family research about this. He sent me some papers about Rick Corduroy which I think would interest you."

Wendy opened the envelope eagerly. She saw a picture of Rick Corduroy in his Army uniform, copies of his medals and then his discharge papers.

"This is really cool, Dad," Wendy said appreciatively.

Dan nodded and went over to a desk. "There was somethin' even more interesting there," he said, opening it up and pulling it out. "Looks like a family tree someone in our family did awhile ago. Turns out we're _not_ descended from Rick, after all."

Wendy couldn't help feeling disappointed. "Really?"

"Nah, according to Eddie he died before having any kids. We're descended from his little brother Duke. Can't believe I didn't know that."

"Huh." This was certainly news to Wendy; everything she'd read indicated that he was a direct ancestor. Still, it was an interesting development, and for a moment she weighed whether or not Dan might know anything more about him.

"Dad...do you know anything about what happened to him after the war?"

Dan sat back thoughtfully, trying to rattle his brain.

"All I know for sure is that he died in 1919, a few months after the war ended. There's kind of a gap in the records Eddie has. Don't know how he died or exactly what he did after he came back."

"Do you know anything about unions or junk like that in this area?" Wendy said.

"Oh yeah, lots of that stuff. The Northwests owned the lumber company up here at that time, and there were a lot of tries at organizing a union, but they always shot them down. I remember reading something about a bombing that killed a guy who worked for the Governor, maybe some other fires or attacks, I'm not sure of the details. Asked Eddie and he said there isn't much available."

Wendy gingerly thought how to raise the topic. "Do you think Rick might have been in a union?"

"I mean, it wouldn't shock me if he was," Dan said. "Back in those days, you were either a bloke or a scab - I think I'm remembering the terms right. Couldn't tell you much more than that."

Wendy wanted to ask outright if he thought there was a chance Dan might be a terrorist, but decided to hold off.

"Rick wasn't married or anything?" she asked, changing the subject back to something more agreeable.

"Well, not so far as we could figure," Dan said, scratching his beard. "There's talk that he was sweet on a girl named Becky, but don't know much more than that."

"All right if I take this?" Wendy asked, sweeping everything back into the envelope.

"Sure, it's your mystery," Dan said. "Just let me know if he turns out to be even more of a badass than we thought."

Wendy laughed. "You know it, Dad."

* * *

Across town, Mabel was enjoying her afternoon, cutting and measuring and sewing dresses with her new friend. Isabel worked a lot faster than she did, which was saying something! Within just an hour or two they had already thrown together a few period-correct - or period-tolerable, at least - dresses, including Mabel's tan dress which had impressed Charlie. She modeled it for Isabel, who gave her a thumbs up.

"This is pretty good," Mabel admitted, admiring herself in a mirror, "but it's nothing on my Frontier Fabulous designs! They were the most tricked-out, wild frontier clothes you've ever seen. But Charlie rejected them because he's a poop head."

"You'll have to show me sometime," Isabel said. "Charlie's pretty utilitarian when it comes to stuff like this."

"That's why he's an historian and I'm not," Mabel said, practicing an exaggerated curtsey which made Isabel laugh. "He's utilitarian, I'm fun."

Mabel looked along the wall of the store, spotting several framed photographs of different generations of Mercer. She came across the first one, a stern looking woman named Rebecca Whitney Mercer. Mabel could see where the family's looks came from, even if she looked a lot meaner than her descendants.

"That's Rebecca, or Becky as her friends called her," Isabel said proudly. "She's the one who started the business right after World War I! Mercers have been sewing and selling fabrics here in Gravity Falls for almost a century!"

"Whoa," Mabel said. "Can't believe you've been in business that long."

"Well, not continuously," Isabel explained. "It's opened and closed over the years depending on how our family's been doing in a given generation. Like, my mom just moved back to town around the time you guys first came here, and we didn't open the store back up until 2014. Still, I'm surprised you didn't come in here until now."

"Well, I'm here now, sister!" Mabel said, clasping Isabel's hands. Then she whispered in mock seriousness: "And I'm never going to leave!"

But Mabel had to run the dresses back to the Historical Center. As she and Isabel grabbed them up, Mabel's eyes lit upon another photograph. Something in it struck her attention.

It was a picture of Becky Mercer as a young woman, probably before starting her business. Next to her was a tall, strapping man in overalls with a lumberjack's ax over his shoulder. The picture looked so familiar to Mabel, but she couldn't place it.

Then it hit her.

Manly Dan. Wendy's dad. That's who it looked like. Even if it couldn't be, because then he'd be a hundred years old.

Mabel's jaw hit the floor, standing there with dresses dragging along the ground. She was too stunned to notice this, or Isabel asking if she was okay. What could this possibly mean?

* * *

Eventually, Mabel gathered her wits enough to ask about the photograph. Isabel said that she wasn't sure who the man was, but apparently it was one of several suitors Becky had had in the years before.

"She even dated one of the Northwests," Isabel confided, as if spreading juicy gossip about a classmate. "Rumor was that they were engaged at one point, but it didn't work out - God knows why."

"He looks like..." Mabel hesitated, shaking her head and wondering if it could really be him.

"Dan Corduroy, right?" Isabel said. "Yeah, my mom thinks so, too. Might have been an ancestor. Who knows?"

Was Mabel looking upon Rick Corduroy, the war hero, the labor leader, the potential terrorist? Everything she and her friends had been searching for, she'd stumbled across entirely by accident.

"Do you have any copies of this photograph anywhere?" Mabel asked. "I mean, I'm sure Charlie would like to take a look."

"Yeah, you guys can borrow it," Isabel said. "Just wait until tomorrow, I need to clear it with my mom."

Mabel nodded absently as she stared at the lumberjack's familiar visage, the beaming young woman on his arm. She knew she shouldn't, but she felt super dumb, because part of her knew that the answer was staring her right in the face and she didn't know what it was or what it _meant_.


	15. Chapter 14

**July 3rd, 2018**

Ford spent the better part of two days at McGucket's mansion, trying to parse the books he'd been handed. He'd littered the table with copious notes and cross-references, frequently interjected with his own exasperated, hastily-scrawled commentaries, all stained and occasionally blotted with coffee, water and assorted food condiments.

The first volume, Aaron A. Fony's _Trials, Tribulations and Terror_ , proved as officious as he dreaded: 250 pages of single-spaced prose, denser than a London fog and drier than Death Valley. They told a tale of labor agitation and corporate reaction, angry loggers and heartless employers that might, in different hands, be a gripping story, but in Professor Fony's book it became a dry succession of names, dates and rambling analyses, occasionally interspersed with graphs illustrating the increased numbers of Wobblies in Oregon throughout the 1910s or the number of workplace deaths before and after Woodrow Wilson took office...

For the specific period in question, Ford found only unhelpful confirmation of things he already knew, or suspected: a large number of Fallers serving in the First World War, an American Protective League chapter who spent the war harassing German-Americans and radicals, disenchanted loggers trying to form a union after the war, the bombing that killed two people and nearly killed Dylan Northwest (blamed beyond doubt on the Gravity Falls Lumber Collective)...and the Oregon National Guard stepping in to crush an attempted strike. That last was new, yet seemed unremarkable; Ford knew enough about labor history to know that was a very common occurrence.

So what, exactly, was being hidden?

Ford got his answers in the second book, Howard Z. Crank's _Gravity Falls at War_. Though cheaply printed and written in amateur prose, it told a far more interesting tale of battles between loggers and their employers. Most interesting to Ford, however, it made two key claims that deviated tantalizingly from the Fony account:

1\. That the bombing of April 1919, far from an act of left wing, anti-corporate terrorism, was a false flag concocted by the Northwests to justify repression against the loggers;

2\. That Dylan Northwest had a son, Thaddeus Northwest, who wasn't mentioned at all in Fony or other sources that Ford was familiar with.

The former might be a crank conspiracy theory, but the latter seemed too outrageous to merely invent. He racked his brain about the Northwest family tree, his previous investigations into their history of scandal and cover-up. He didn't have photographic memory of this, but he could recall that Preston's father had been Auldman Northwest, and his father named George Northwest. But that seemed odd...

Flush in the fever of fresh discovery, Ford went over to the bookshelf and searched out Ambrose Stevenson's authorized biography, _Nathaniel Northwest: Founding Father of Gravity Falls_ , which included in its appendix a Northwest family tree. Sure enough, he looked in the back and the following entries read:

 **NATHANIEL DEVIN NORTHWEST, 1830(?)-1892**

 **DYLAN NATHANIEL NORTHWEST, 1864-1934**

 **GEORGE RICHARD NATHANIEL NORTHWEST, 1920-1996**

 **AULDMAN GEORGE DYLAN NORTHWEST, 1944-2010**

 **PRESTON NATHANIEL AULDMAN NORTHWEST, 1970-present**

This seemed exceedingly curious. Dylan Northwest would have to have been at least 55 when he conceived George. It was _possible_...but his wife Annabelle had died in 1914 in a railway accident, and there was no record of a second marriage. Was George Walker Northwest illegitimate? Or was something even stranger afoot?

Is it possible that the Northwests erased an entire generation? Surely there would still be records...birth certificates, census records, newspapers...some sort of documentation that would be impossible even for the most fastidious, sinister conspirators to hide _completely_.

Of course, that assumed someone would want to find them. And Ford knew that the Northwests, of all people, had several ways of removing people's curiosity. He thought back to Stan's tale of the bald man who'd menaced the kids, and wondered if that rung a bell...

As if on cue, his cellphone rang.

* * *

Meanwhile, Dipper had reconstructed his cork board conspiracy chart from past summers, trying to connect all the disparate pieces he and his friends had assembled. There really wasn't much to go on; someone was trying to cover up an obscure logging dispute, wanted to cover it up badly enough to kill people.

Were the Northwests enough of control freaks that they'd really go to such drastic lengths? Dipper wondered, but he knew the answers. Nothing mattered more to the Northwests than their reputation. He remembered that they had managed to cover up proof that their family patriarch with a few phone calls, bribes and threats of legal recrimination. No one would listen to two twelve year olds, he remembered ruefully, even if they could back up their claims with documentary evidence. Who were some kids next to a widely-accepted myth?

More vividly, he remembered that horrifying night he'd spent hunting the Lumberjack Ghost in the Northwests' attic, finding Pacifica among records of family misdeeds, carefully curated as if waiting for someone curious (or foolhardy) to stumble across them. She remembered Pacifica's resigned, heartbroken tone when she intimated that this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Damn it. Dipper had told himself he would try to go this summer without thinking about Pacifica. Well, he couldn't help it.

Things were starting to make sense, but they were still too clouded to provide a full picture, too vague and general to prove anything. And besides, would anyone listen to a few kids fresh out of high school anymore than they would some twelve year olds? Just maybe, with the Stans backing them up, they'd have a little more credibility. And maybe, if they found harder proof rather than hints and misdirection, they could make it stick this time.

Maybe. Just so long as Baldy didn't rear his shiny head again...

His phone buzzed, and he saw a call incoming from...Ford?

"Dipper, it's Ford," he said curtly. "Get everyone who's working on this mystery of yours together and head over to Fiddleford's mansion. I'm onto something that could blow this whole investigation wide open."

Dipper's head throbbed with excitement. "Grunkle Ford, what's up? Did you find something-?"

"I don't know _what_ I've found yet," Ford barked. "I left my books and notes in the study for you to look over while I'm out. Fiddleford knows you're coming. Get Mabel and Wendy and that kid from the Museum and Stan, if he'll come, and I'll meet you there in a few hours."

Ford hung up without further explanation. Dipper stared at his phone in wonderment. He didn't know whether to run downstairs and pull Stan away from whatever he was doing, or to call Mabel (who'd surely bring Charlie along on her own initiative) and Wendy... But for some reason, his fingers.

 _Hey Pacifica, it's Dipper. We're back in town for the summer and onto something big re: the Northwest Family._

He winced at his recklessness, realizing at the last moment that this might give the game away. Given what had happened between them two summers ago, he couldn't be sure she'd help him. Even if she would, who knows if she could keep it a secret from her parents?

So he decided to send her just the first part of the message: _We're back in town for the summer_. Innocuous enough, he thought, before hitting send.

Still, Dipper briefly trembled in fear of whether or not she'd even read the text, or what her reaction would be. Then he forced himself to snap out of it; there was work to do.

* * *

Ford followed the instructions he'd received and arrived at a bridge just outside of town, as the sun disappeared over the horizon. He had his magnet gun tucked carefully under his arm, always dreading the possibility of a set-up or a double-cross. He thought he spied a Gremloblin glaring at him from the woods, but Ford simply shook its head, indicating that he wasn't in the mood for a supernatural complication. The beast nodded respectfully and melted into the forest.

After a brief minute, he saw a car pull up, its headlights flooding the bridge. Ford shielded himself and winced, waiting to hear an angry shout, a gunshot, something indicating that his goose was cooked.

When the lights died down, Ford saw a familiar figure emerge into the twilight. He looked a scarecrow, moving cautiously in a ratty blue coat. Ford squinted, recognizing the figure to his surprise. It was...Deputy Durland?

"Sorry for callin' y'all like this," Durland said, apologetically. He looked terrified and ashamed as he skulked through the darkness, like a kid who'd broken his mom's favorite vase. "Didn't know where else to turn, and they're already suspicious of the kids..."

"Hold on, Edwin," he said, addressing the Deputy by his given name. "First thing's first. Who's 'they'?"

"You know who _they_ are," Durland said ruefully. "Who the hell else would it be around here? You're pokin' the bear with a stick full of bees," he said, confusing Ford with his epically mixed metaphor.

Ford crossed his arms. "Come on, Edwin, I already know this is big. Don't waste both our times with your vagueness and weird, inscrutable aphorisms."

Durland hesitated, then opened his coat. First, he pulled out a small cardboard box.

"This is some microfilm that the Man what was in town wanted," Durland said. "Toby and the kids got hold of the Gravity Falls _Gazette_ , but this here's the Gravity Falls _Herald_ , a paper that went out of business around 1935. For whatever reason the North-" He caught himself. " _They_ seemed to overlook this one. Should have the time span that you need."

Ford took the microfilm out of the box and examined it with the light on his cellphone, confirming that it was indeed imprinted with old papers.

"Well, I suppose we could take it to the library or the Museum of History," he said, pocketing it. "Thanks, Edwin, this is definitely a help."

"Wait, I have somethin' else," Durland said. Ford watched as the Deputy hesitated, then went over to his car and cracked open the trunk. Ford looked in and saw a huge stack of papers.

"Found this in my attic awhile back," the Deputy said. "Looks like an ancestor of mine, Dix Durland, kept it. Letters and Army records and what looked like a diary or some kind of personal record."

Ford leaned down, mouth opening in awe. Again, he flipped out his phone and skimmed through some of the pages with his light.

"It's chicken scratch, but it's legible, most of it," Durland continued, with a hint of shame - whether for his ancestor's illiteracy or his own actions, Ford couldn't decide.

Ford carefully took the papers and closed the trunk. "Thanks, Edwin," he said, more sincerely this time. "I appreciate your doing this for me."

"Yeah, well, it seems like the only thing I could do given all that's happened over the past few weeks," he said. Then he added, more to himself than Ford, "I hope Blubbs doesn't find out."

"You're doing the right thing," Ford tried to assure him. He was always terrible at saying the right thing.

Durland sighed. "Plenty of folks have been tellin' me that since this mess started," he confided. "They say that appealing to friendship or shoving a wad of bills under my face or a goddamn cattle prod in my chest." His face grew bitter, angry at the memory. "I know somebody's gotta be right, but I wish I knew _who_."

"Well, we'll soon find out what's worth attacking Gravity Falls' Finest over," Ford said with appreciation and a smile. He shook the Deputy's hand, then walked off towards his car.

"Wait a minute." Ford was struck with a thought. "This man who's been in town causing trouble...Stan told me what he looked like, and it rang a bell or two, but I couldn't place it for sure. Do you know who he is?"

Durland tried to think. "I know a little about him," Durland said. "Last name is Questadt. At least that's what he called himself."

Ford rattled his brain to see if he could remember someone by that name. All he could think of was the heroine of an E.M. Forster novel and a bit character in _The Godfather Part II_. But then, suddenly, his mind snapped back to a UFO convention in the mid-'80s, not long before his disappearance, and a man who seemed a little too interested in what everyone was investigating...

"Thanks, Deputy," Ford said, suddenly excited. "Sorry to dash, but I have people waiting for me. You don't know what this means!"

Then Ford jumped in his own car and drove down the road at full speed. Durland watched him clip someone's mailbox as he swerved onto the main road, shaking his head, Ford's words echoing in his head.

 _Gravity Falls' Finest._ Durland had to laugh at that one. But maybe, just possibly, starting tonight, he and Blubbs could try and make that moniker stick.

* * *

No one at Gravity Falls General Hospital asked too many questions that past Saturday, when a tall man with several bloody head wounds staggered into the ER. The Night Nurse figured that he was another drunk who'd had one too many beers and crashed his car. Still, his case was severe - he'd suffered three serious blows to his skull, one severely denting it just above his left ear; the doctor who examined him was amazed that the skull hadn't been fractured, and that aside from some swelling there wasn't any serious brain damage. Still, he had lost a lot of blood and the doctor decided he should be kept for a few nights.

The Man - who called himself L.G. Gordon, though that wasn't anywhere close to his embarrassingly literary _real_ name - was in too much pain to object. He thought, at the very least, he had a concussion, though if the doctor or nurses told him as much he couldn't remember it. The next few days were a blur, flashes of lucidity along with long, dark nightmares and empty blackouts, all bleeding together into a cognitive mishmash. Most prominent were flashbacks to that messy night at the Museum, a routine mission foiled by some kids, an old man threatening him with a _crossbow_ of all things...What had gone wrong?

Three days later, he was still there, still in pain, his thoughts disoriented. He was supposed to report to his boss at least once a day, more if he found something interesting, but he hadn't done so in almost 72 hours. And God knows what those kids, and any adults, might be up to.

He started training himself to walk around his hospital room, but could only make a few shaky steps at a time. After one such bout he collapsed on the bed in pain, waking him several hours later to a nurse trying to feed him. He could have sworn the nurse had the face of that red-haired girl who'd beaten him senseless with an ax handle at the Museum the other night...

What a bunch of _hicks_ , he thought, that they'd bested him with medieval weapons. Next time he'd be sure to bring his gun.

If there was a next time. By now, he wondered if the fate of Preston Northwest was worth all this trouble.

He'd done jobs for politicians before, the sort of black-bag work that could swing elections and bring a gullible electorate to his knees. He drew the line at killing people - he was not an assassin, he told himself with a strange sort of pride - but beyond that, anything was fair game: blackmail, press leaks, poison pen letters, the works. How many Senators, Congressmen, Governors owed their seats to him? Hell, how many foreign leaders did?

And yet he'd been bested by four kids with blunt instruments and a water bottle. Something seemed disproportionate in that, if not pathetic, all for some files about something that happened a hundred years ago.

Such self-congratulatory thoughts kept him going for that rough stretch of days. Aside from his brief efforts at walking, he might have been content to let his illness ride itself out, the Northwests be damned. But then he turned on the television and saw a news report that made him blanch with anger.

"Local police are releasing Toby Determined," Shaundra Jimenez reported. "The local reporter had been arrested in connection with several break-ins at the Gravity Falls Museum of History, along with the assault on Sheriff Daryl Blubbs and Deputy Edwin Durland on June 17th. Another break-in at the Museum over the weekend spurred their decision."

Then Sheriff Blubbs appeared, announcing: "We do not currently have an alternate suspect, but we apologize to Mr. Determined for his incarceration. It is a mistake we deeply regret. And let the person who did it know," he said, looking into the camera, "we will find you."

Those _bastards_ , he seethed. Those rednecks had taken his money and now they'd suddenly grown a conscience. And worse, the one person - besides those kids, who he still didn't rate as much more than a nuisance - who might expose him was now free and surely eager to write and to talk.

Still, he wasn't in any shape to finish his job. For now he had to grin and bear it, left with his pain and his scrambled thoughts and a very difficult decision to make.

The TV cut to commercial. He saw a campaign ad with, good Lord, Preston Northwest on it, promising as always to "Make Oregon the Best." He grabbed his water glass off the nightstand and threw it into the television.


	16. Chapter 15

By midnight, the Mystery Team gathered around a conference table in McGucket's drawing room. Dipper wore his usual vest and disheveled T-shirt, fatigue and anxiety fighting for domination. Mabel, on the other hand, seemed incurably perky (the product of Mabel Juice, no doubt) while sporting her trademark shooting star sweater. Mabel dragged not Charlie but also Isabel along with her; it was Isabel's family's photograph, after all, and she felt she had a right to discover any secrets it possessed. Stan came along too, telling Dipper he was bored and what else did he have to do, though his poorly-concealed brass knuckles showed the real reason for his presence. Soos, who had been too busy to help with this mystery up until now, came along despite Stan's reluctance.

And Wendy, of course, joined them, in a coal gray t-shirt rather than her usual flannel, wearing her hair long for the first time in weeks. She looked around her and felt uncommonly insecure; she didn't know if the scraps of information gleaned from her father would measure up to anything her companions possessed. One of the few things that genuinely bugged her was feeling inferior, even dumb next to the others around her. Certainly it was why she felt more and more happy about dumping Graham.

But then she saw Soos, who lightened the mood with goofy stories about his and Melody's trip to Seattle, and Mabel and Isabel laughing and swapping design ideas, and Stan looking alternately bored and anxious, and overcame it. She didn't know Charlie (or Ford, for that matter) _that_ well, but she knew Dipper would be the last person who would judge her for anything.

Suddenly there was an ear-piercing shriek; everyone covered their ears and groaned.

"Holy Moses, McGucket!" Stan shouted. "Every damn time one of us sneezes that damn burglar alarm goes off!"

"Sorry!" McGucket replied, turning off the alarm and rushing into the room with a tray of drinks. "So much sensitive material and equipment here, I have to be warier than a rattlesnake in a condiment jar!"

"Totally, dude," Soos said. "Believe me, those reptiles get really defensive about their ketchup!"

"Ain't it the truth," McGucket affirmed. Wendy smiled; of course those two operated on the same wavelength.

McGucket passed around coffee and tea to everyone for joining them. "It ain't much, but it will keep you warm and awake."

"It's 85 degrees outside," Stan grunted, wincing as the gross brown elixir sloshed around his teeth.

"But, it's also after midnight!" Mabel chirped. "Thanks Fiddleford!"

"If you add enough lemon and sugar to it, this tea's not that bad," Isabel said politely, squeezing a packet of lemon juice into her saucer.

"Plenty of sugar!" McGucket nodded. "Last guest I had complained about my sweetener. Now there's enough to make your teeth rot."

"This coffee'll do that on its own," Stan murmured.

Wendy took a cup of coffee and drank it. Somehow she resisted the urge to spit it across the room and gulped it down.

"Well...it's hot," she agreed with a choke.

Then the alarm went off again, and everyone dropped their glasses on the floor.

* * *

"I have to admit I didn't expect so many people," Ford said, fidgeting with awkward. "I'm glad you're all here to help, but I need to be sure I can trust everyone. From my experience, the more people who know about something, the hard it is to keep it secret."

"Grunkle Ford, you know you can trust me and Dipper and Stan and Wendy!" Mabel insisted.

"And me!" Soos interjected.

"And Charlie and Isabel are my friends," Mabel added, squeezing both of them tight against her, to Isabel's appreciative delight and Charlie's irritation. "Do you think I'd hang out with any bad guys?"

"Don't answer that," Dipper cut in.

"Well, the more the merrier," Ford sighed after a pause, pressing his glasses against the bridge of his nose. "Right, let's get to work!"

Everyone exchanged the scraps of information they'd most recently procured, with Dipper taking copious notes on a notepad. He shook off his sleepiness, growing increasingly fascinated as the pieces started falling into place.

"I haven't had a chance to really read through Durland's papers," Ford admitted, "but he was definitely alive at the same time as Wendy's ancestor, and served with him in the war. He made reference to working for Northwest Lumber as a strikebreaker or something like that, but doesn't go into much detail."

He pulled out a paper and read it slowly, trying to make sense of the chicken scratch. "3 March 1919: First day at work. Spent all day at the factory gates holding off workers with a gun. Boss fired them for agitation - I think that's what he's saying, it's spelled rather appallingly. Saw Rick and other friends - very hard work, but I suppose it must be done. Gravity Falls must be saved from Reds!"

"Saved from Reds?" Stan said. "Sheesh, he sounds like Dad!"

"Hopefully he won't be as free with the racial epithets," Ford responded. "12 March 1919: Trouble with strikers again. Called workers scabs and other insults, had to beat one with my rifle. Reds getting more and more bold, increasingly violent. Harder and harder to tell friend from enemy. Not like France where everyone was a Hun, these are my friends."

"A Hun, like Attila?" Soos asked. "I thought they were fighting Germans."

"Hun is an epithet used to describe Germans," Charlie explained in an officious but patient manner. "The Kaiser sent a bunch of soldiers to China to fight a rebellion in 1900 and told them to behave like the Huns of old. You know, kill, pillage, loot, rape, that sort of thing. So the name caught on and during the war, everyone called them Huns and accused them of being just as murderous. Kind of like calling a Frenchman a Frog or a Briton a Limey."

"Or an American a Yank?" Mabel asked, clutching his hand with pride.

"Or something stronger," Charlie agreed, smiling.

Ford smiled. "Very impressive, young man. Fortunately, that and 'Hunky' to describe Slavs seem to be as bad as the language gets. Dix Durland must have been a god-fearing man."

"Right, right, he was a good Christian boy," Stan interrupted. "Still talks like the kind of shit heels we'd see punching hippies and complaining about integration near Glass Shard Beach."

"The entries grow more and more vague over time," Ford continued, ignoring him. "At the beginning of April there's a reference to the bombing...Reds attacked Northwest home last night, killed two people including friend of the Governor. Now we see who they truly are. They ask for handouts and deserve a bayonet instead. Wish we were still in trenches so I could shoot them properly."

"Anything after that?" Dipper asked.

"There's an entry for April 3rd that looks smudged, but it mentions something about..." Ford read it as carefully as he could. "I can only make out a few sentences. Reds killed, shot and hanged from tree...Couldn't bear the thought of shooting my old friends, even if they're Communists. Others did the work without problems. I pray to God we did the right thing, but it doesn't feel that way."

"So wait," Wendy asked. "So, these guys just shot the lumberjacks down? Is that what happened to Rick?"

"It doesn't say anything about Rick," Ford said.

"This is weird," Charlie said. "No reference to any of this in the newspapers or files at the Museum! I hadn't even heard of the bombing before, much less a massacre."

"That's because the files have been cleaned out!" Mabel said. "And we found the mystery anyway!"

"This is, like, really..." Wendy sat down and tried to register it. Dipper and Mabel instinctively went over to comfort her.

"You okay, Wen?" Mabel asked.

"I mean, it's cool and everything, but...I was kinda hoping that Rick was as badass as he sounded. Even if this is true, he's still a terrorist. Maybe if he was shot down or thrown in jail he..." She couldn't go on.

"Remember what we learned fighting those unicorns?" Mabel said. "Morality is relative!"

"I think most people still consider throwing a bomb in a room full of people bad," Wendy insisted.

"Well, it was a rough time," Dipper offered. "I mean, those kind of things happened. And it definitely doesn't reflect on you or your family today."

"And even if he was terrorist, he was a Corduroy! The coolest, toughest, most awesome terrorist ever!" Mabel proclaimed.

Wendy chuckled. "Thanks, Mabes. I guess that makes it a _little_ better."

"Wendy, what if I told you I had a source that says the strikers didn't set that bomb?" Ford interrupted.

Wendy looked up with interest. "Oh yeah? How do you know?"

"I found a book that says as much, but they don't give a source," Ford said. "I'd want to have some kind of proof to back it up, but...there's hope."

"Think of all the stuff we've already found that isn't in _any_ history book," Dipper continued, picking up on this lifeline.

"If we can uncover shootings that were being hidden, we can prove a Corduroy innocent," Mabel insisted, patting her friend on the back.

Wendy smiled, happy that her favorite dorks still had her back. Maybe they were right. But how could they prove it?

* * *

"Well, we've confirmed Thad Northwest exists," Ford said as he turned off the projector. He had spent about twenty minutes scrolling through the Gravity Falls _Herald_ , while his colleagues watched, their eyes glazing over at the scratchy, whirring prints. "Sixteen references to him between 1916 and 1919, then they just stop."

"Good, because what the world needs is another Northwest," Dipper said, stretching his arms.

Mabel let out a long yawn. "Why would the Northwests pretend their son didn't exist?" she asked as she laid her head down on her arms. Soos snored loudly beside her, already asleep.

"He must have done something really bad to get erased from the history books," Wendy agreed. "Normally the Northwests can't shut up about how great they are."

"I'm wondering that myself," Ford said. "I think we can assume that George Northwest, Preston's grandfather, was actually Thad's son, but we'd have to see who was married to him."

Isabel, who'd been silent watching most of the scene unfold, spoke up.

"I know my ancestor...Rebecca Mercer... she had a fabric store in town back in that time," she said. "Mabel and I found her in this picture with Rick Corduroy at my mom's store," she said, producing the framed photograph.

Wendy and Dipper instantly recognized one of the figures.

"Whoa, that's...a Corduroy," Dipper said, eyeing his friend.

"Holy shit," Wendy said. "He looks just like my dad!"

"And that's my great-grandmother Rebecca," Isabel indicated, pointing at the woman beside him. "This picture was taken in 1917, I think."

"We had a smaller version of that picture in the Historical Center awhile back, but the names were crossed out and it was "unidentified man and woman, circa 1920,"" Charlie said. "Then it disappeared. Funny how everything that might help us disappears."

"More annoying than funny," Wendy said.

Ford examined the picture, then lifted the frame. He noticed a notch of cardboard coming loose in the back.

"Hold on," Ford said. "Does anyone have anything pointy or sharp?"

Stan fished around in his pockets, while the others looked around and shrugged. Then Soos spoke up.

"Dudes, I have my utility knife!" He pulled it out and unsheathed the blade.

"Excellent," Ford said, taking the instrument. "Now Isabel, I'll do my best not to damage the photograph but I think we need to examine it more closely." Isabel hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"So Rick Corduroy and your ancestor were a thing?" Wendy asked her.

"That's what it looks like," Isabel said, watching anxiously as Ford delicately cut his way through the cardboard. "She had a lot of suitors in her younger days, though."

"Wait...wasn't she the one who was engaged to a Northwest?" Mabel remembered their first chat the day before.

Isabel nodded. "Yeah...It couldn't have been Dylan, he would have been old enough to be her father." She wrinkled her face. "At least, I _hope_ not..."

Ford cut around the edges of the picture, trying to damage neither frame nor photograph. He gingerly lifted it up, then uttered an unconscious gasp as he looked inside. He pulled out two small sheets of paper and a photograph.

"Wow," was all that Isabel could say as everyone moved in for a closer look.

* * *

Ford stared at the photograph first. He received it coolly, but Dipper and Mabel recoiled in disgust. It showed two men standing over a dead lumberman's bullet-riddled corpse, showboating for the camera, with a flag crumpled in the background. There was an inscription on the back, reading "Battle of Gravity Falls - 3 April 1919" but not identifying any of those present.

He handed the papers to Dipper, who started reading them.

"I, Rebecca Mercer, type this letter to provide an account of an event that everyone seeks to bury. Already the Northwests and the townspeople, as if by agreement, want it forgotten. I am confident there will be no other extant record of this event if I do not write.

"In April 1919, there was a major fight at Gravity Falls. The Northwest Lumber Company terminated many of its employees for engaging in labor activism, hiring strikebreakers and scabs from among the townspeople. There were an escalating series of confrontations, including a violent battle in the streets on March 20th which left many injured. I became personally involved when one of their leaders, a Mr. Corduroy, sought assistance during the fight; I hid him in my home until the danger passed."

"Mr. Corduroy, huh?" Wendy murmured under her breath. "That's awfully casual if she'd been dating him." But Mabel and Charlie stared in rapt attention, while Isabel looked uncomfortably at the floor, at the walls, clearly pained by the words she was hearing.

Dipper continued: "The conflict escalated until the Governor and the Lumberman's Union decided to send representatives to mediate with the Northwests. On the night of April 1st a bomb exploded during one of their conferences, killing those two men and injuring Dylan Northwest. His son swore revenge, organizing a posse of gunmen and strikebreakers."

"Another reference to that Thad fella," Soos said. "I wonder what mischief he'll get up to next!"

"On April 3rd, they attacked the strikers' camp, burned it to the ground and started shooting them. Some of the men refused to fire at their friends, others joined in enthusiastically. By the end of the night, seven men had been killed, including the father of my child." Dipper interrupted himself. "Then there's a weird space here," he indicated, as if someone had jabbed a tab key on a word processor by accident.

"Basically, like everyone else I'm being told to be quiet or else they'll take care of me. I have already lost my son and the love of my life, so what have I to lose in writing this? Hopefully someone will read this letter and the truth can be known, even if it takes years. John 8:32 "You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

"Signed, Rebecca Mercer."

Dipper and Mabel looked at Isabel, who clutched at her collarbone in shock. She sat down and stared into space, starting to rock back and forth. Wendy moved over to comfort her as best she could, two people who had learned a weird family secret. Mabel and Charlie looked at each other in surprise.

"Wait, so I have some questions," Soos spoke up. "A lot of that is kinda vague. Like, the father of her child is who? Kinda weird that she didn't write his name in a secret letter. And, like, what happened to her child? Did the strikebreakers shoot it, or was it like, a miscarriage? And it doesn't really answer anything about the bomb..."

"Soos, this isn't like a manga where we can explain plot points for you," Dipper said with unintended harshness.

"Sorry dude," Soos apologized. "It's just...I'd like to know, you know. You dudes spent so much time digging all this up, you'd think there'd be more, or at least a key to the mystery somewhere. Kinda sad to leave it hanging like that."

 _A key to the mystery..._ Something clicked in Dipper's head. He skimmed back over the letter, looking for a phrase, something that he could decode...Maybe he'd overlooked something.

As he pondered, his phone buzzed in his pocket. In surprise, he handed the letter back to Ford, then pulled the phone sheepishly out of his pocket. A new text message.

"Oh my God," he said out loud, reading the message.

 _"Dipper: I'll be in town for Pioneer Days later this week. We need to catch up. See you then! - Pacifica"_

"Pacifica?" Mabel said. "Like, you guys haven't spoken in years!" Dipper didn't mention texting her earlier in the evening; didn't seem appropriate. The air hung heavy with confusion.

Then Soos, naturally, interjected:

"Pacifica? Heh heh, how's _that_ for a twist?"


	17. Chapter 16: March 1919

**March 20th, 1919**

For the first time all week, the sun came out. Rick Corduroy took it as a good omen, even though the streets were still strewn with snow and mud and frost and filth, the wind and cold temperatures still nipping at their faces and exposed skin. After the past few weeks, he'd take what he could get.

"All right, friends, it's time," he said, rousing the lumbermen from their tents and sleeping bags. Slowly and groggily, they stretched themselves out, raised themselves up, swathed themselves in furs and coats, slurped down hot coffee and nibbled hard bread, standing around a fire.

They had a makeshift banner - a patchwork blue flag adorned with crossed axes, knitted by Dorothy Corduroy from several of her old dresses. (Bob Christiansen, of course, had wanted a red flag, but was shouted down by his less radical colleagues.) They organized themselves into a phalanx of about 300 men, standing under the banner (held by a cheerful-looking Scott Lodge) with a few hand-painted signs.

Rick marched to the head of the procession, wearing a thick fur coat, hands in his pockets. He spoke with his usual bluntness as his men prepared to head about it.

"Fellas, they've been saying nasty things about us, threatening our lives, trying to burn us out and scare us off. Well, the people of Gravity Falls are our friends, even if the Northwests want them to forget it. We just need to show up in town and make it clear that we aren't boogeymen or Bolsheviks or whatever they're calling us this week."

The crowd reacted with silent approval. John Cox inclined his head loyally, thinking his friend showed more courage now than he had during the war. Bob Christiansen, on the other hand, kept a hard, guarded expression on his face; his right hand fondled a Colt revolver hidden within his coat.

"This is a peaceful demonstration," Rick said, as if in reaction. "No rioting or looting or killing anybody, even if Dylan Northwest and his shitheel son walk across your path and spit on you. Today isn't the day to settle old scores, it's to make friends and show our strength. And maybe make those rich bastards show that they can't mess with lumbermen any more than they can kick a bear!"

Shouts of glee, laughter and approval interrupted his speech.

Rick scanned his men, all watching eagerly, hanging on his every move. Already tough men, most of them, they had hardened even more over the past few weeks. Freezing in their makeshift camp, shivering beneath snow and rain and wind, enduring exposure and eating only what food their friends and kinfolk brought to the camp...occasionally enduring threats, intimidation, even outright attacks by guards and scissorbills who valued a few coins more than dignity. Twice they had tried burning down the tents; once they even stabbed a worker to death in a scuffle.

There were calls for instant violence, to attack the lumber works and hack the scabs who took their place. Many of them had been fired the same day as them, only to be rehired by Mr. Morrison on the condition that they immediately join the company union and forswear any objectionable activism. Others were men hired from the local tin mine which had recently shut down; out of work and desperate for money, they asked no questions about a potential work. Harder to square were those, like Dix Durland, who picked up arms and truncheons and resolved to kill their old friends.

But Rick dissuaded the firebrands in the camp from making undue trouble. He realized that his men only had a few old pistols and hunting rifles, no match for the Springfields and automatic rifles that the Northwests equipped the guards with. It would be a massacre, unless they gained absolute surprise or attacked at night. And Rick had no stomach for that kind of devious bloodshed, either.

So now they would march.

"All right, everyone," Rick said, turning away from his colleagues to face Gravity Falls in the distance, taking a deep, hesitant breath. "Let's begin."

* * *

Rebecca Mercer experienced slow business during the past month; snow and slush and cold made the ladies of Gravity Falls have different priorities than the latest dresses from New York. Now that today was sunnier, she received a few visitors, mostly older couples looking for practical winter clothes and fabrics.

From them she heard whispers, rumors of an impending march by the strikers into town. She'd paid as little attention to the strike as she could, though it was impossible to ignore completely. Lou Determined ran screaming headlines about Bolsheviks in the Gravity Falls _Gazette_ every day, imploring the good townspeople to rally around the Northwests and the American Legion and stamp out revolution. Worst of all was Thad, as might be expected, who couldn't shut up about the impending explosion.

"Sooner or later these swine are going to pay the ultimate price," Thad had said. "It's one thing to betray their employers, but to turn on their country as well? Especially men like that Corduroy fellow who served in the Army and come home infected with treason? What is this town coming to when we can't even trust our friends and neighbors?"

Rebecca couldn't tell how truthful Thad's ramblings were. However charming he could be at times, any time he talked about shop or politics he seemed to slip into prepared speeches. She didn't want to hear about Madison Grant's writings on race suicide, or Leonard Wood's call for a citizen army to extirpate Communism. She certainly didn't want to hear Josephine Dodge's arguments, regurgitated through a man's coarse mouth, that women had no right to vote and that independent women were destroying the institution of family.

"Well, what am *I*?" Rebecca would demand. "I own a store and live alone, and I'm in my twenties. Would you dismiss _me_ as a mere spinster or troublemaker?" Thad stared at Rebecca as if the thought hadn't occurred to him that such issues might apply to her, but then she wondered how many thoughts truly did occur to him beneath their basic surface.

She tried not to think of Rick Corduroy, of their courtship and the one time where she was less than ladylike with him before the war, but it was difficult. Time had moved forward, he had gone away, and Thad Northwest offered the prospect of short-term happiness and a comfortable, domestic life. She kept him at arm's length, relishing her independence but thinking that, sooner or later, she might need to settle down.

Such thoughts occupied her even as she sewed and sold, trying to convince herself that everything with Rick was in the past, when she looked out the window and saw him leading a large procession down Main Street.

* * *

A few townspeople came out to watch the procession, its makeshift banner fluttering in the thinning breeze, their lumberjack friends hale and hearty despite the cold weather and their worn, pitiable clothes. Most paid no more than polite attention, stopping to watch, perhaps inclining a hat or making a furtive wave if they recognized someone in the crowd. They marched in surprisingly solid order, making little noise as they moved beyond the tromp of their boots in the mud. To Rick's disappointment, none joined it, and only a curious few followed alongside.

Others were passively hostile; mothers hurried children out of the way, shopkeepers closed their windows, lowered blinds as they marched past. A few boys and troublemakers shouted insults and pelted the marches with snowballs and mud. One of the loggers turned and stuck out his tongue at the kids. "I may be a Commie, but at least I learned manners from my ma!" he laughed.

These rapscallions were nothing compared to the solid line of trouble waiting for them in town, just across from Wentworth's Saloon. About two dozen men, some in khaki uniforms, all armed with clubs or truncheons or whips (one or two had rifles), waited for them, cutting off the street. At their head, naturally, stood Lieutenant Sprott.

Rick halted the column after getting within a few feet of the khaki line. He stepped forward.

"Sprott, you irascible bastard, shouldn't you be back in camp watching over Mr. Northwest's profits?" Rick asked. The loggers sputtered laughter, but the Legionnaires were unmoved.

"I don't think you have a permit for this demonstration, Corduroy," Sprott grunted. "As the commander of Gravity Falls' American Legion post, I..."

"Hang the Legion," Rick said. "You don't get to pull that with me, Sprott. I served in France and so did a bunch of my men. You have no more patriotism and sure as hell have no more authority here."

"You're doing no good service here, Corduroy," Sprott snapped. "And we've been made special deputies by Sheriff Carver in anticipation of such trouble making. Again, I ask you for a permit."

Bob Christiansen stepped forward. "Our permit, Lieutenant, is the United States Constitution, specifically the First Amendment which guarantees..."

"Shut your square-headed socialist mouth," he said, striking Christiansen on the head with a truncheon. He fell into the snow, yelping and clutching his bloody head.

Rick watched in shock as his partner struggled to his feet. He flooded with rage, but resisted the urge to strike back. He sensed that a crowd was gathering to watch their confrontation, and did not want to be accused of aggression.

"Makes me sick when traitors like you try using the Constitution against your own country," he hissed. Rick just glowered at Sprott, who tapped him mockingly with his truncheon.

"Get a move along, Corduroy," he said, a sick smile overtaking his face. "All of you, clear out of town!" he shouted past him to the demonstration. "You've no right to be here."

"Go to hell," someone shouted back.

"Go tell it to Northwest, scissorbill!" another voice commander.

Rick turned back at his men, signalling them to keep it down. Two others rushed forward to grab Bob Christiansen and pulled him back towards the main line. As they went back, Bob broke free of his colleagues and drew his pistol, aiming at Sprott.

Rick didn't think, he only reacted. Too far away to grab his colleague, he pushed Sprott out of the way as Bob fired. The shot grazed Rick's shoulder, and he fell to the ground beside the astonished Lieutenant, who shot the quivering Swede a death glare. A momentary pause, as the two sides hung back, waiting for someone to make the next move.

One of the Legionnaires nervously cocked the bolt on their rifle. The lumbermen lunged forward as one, and Sprott waved his truncheon. His men surged forward, attacking the crowd.

Thus the streets erupted in pandemonium. The Legionnaires were heavily outnumbered, but they had the advantage of arms and surprise. They jostled forward, administering whip lashes and clubbings with unrestrained glee. Sprott in particular seemed to enjoy it as he struck striker after striker in the body and face with his truncheon. Some of the Lumbermen resisted with fists and signs, but most went down without a struggle, their bodies falling broken and bleeding into the street. The rest started to break ranks and flee in panic, rushing back through town.

As if by prearranged signal, several constables in police uniform appeared from the street on either side of the marchers, attacking them with billy clubs. They were even more savage than the Legionnaires, striking down lumbermen who tried to surrender, smashing skulls and breaking limbs. Rick shook himself awake, watching as a Legionnaire repeatedly kicked little Scott Lodge with his boot, wrenching the lumbermen's banner from his hands as he fell.

Ignoring the pain surging through his shoulder, Rick raised himself off the ground and rushed towards Lodge. He grabbed the Legionnaire by the shirt and threw him, bodily, against the side of a building, then decked another with his fist. He grabbed the banner off the ground and clutched it to his chest. A policeman moved towards him, but another lumberman tackled the cop and dragged him scuffling into the mud.

Rick saw another man, evidently a vigilante, aiming a Winchester rifle at him from across the street. Rick shot the man a stoic glare; he lost his nerve and disappeared inside a barn.

Despite Rick's belated revival, there wasn't much he could do; the Legionnaires and constables had routed his men, most of whom were either bleeding in the street or running helter-skelter back to their tent city. Frustrated, Rick spotted another Legionnaire rushing past. He grabbed the man by his sleeve, then punched him twice in the stomach, grabbing his club and breaking it over his knee.

Rick turned back to Scott Lodge, who lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, bleeding from his mouth.

"Rick, I'm glad it was me instead of you," he said, before crumpling into unconsciousness. Rick tucked the banner into his coat and turned, looking for someone else to punch.

By now, it was too late. A line of mounted horsemen appeared at the head of the street, some carrying rifles, and began chasing down any marchers that remained. Rick dodged as several fired at him, their shots splashing into the mud. Rick ducked into an alley and watched as the final vestiges of the battle played out, in screams and shouts and shots echoing through a now-emptied square, with only a few dozen injured men crawling and staggering about gasping for breath.

For the first time in his life, or maybe the second if France counted, he felt utterly helpless.

* * *

Rebecca watched the carnage unfold in horror from her store. Her first instinct was to hide, her second to help, but she daren't venture into the street while men were killing each other. Just as the last fighting played out, she gasped as Rick Corduroy, covered in mud and bleeding from the shoulder, staggered into her store.

"Jesus Christ!" Rebecca shouted, ushering him inside. Rick staggered to a chair and collapsed into it, breathing heavily.

"Those bastards...they just started _killing_ everyone," he said. He'd evidently forgotten, or chosen to forget, about Bob Christiansen firing the first shot; if he ever got out of there, he'd have something to say to that damned Swede, who was proving more trouble than he was worth.

Not that it mattered - far more marchers had been injured than Legionnaires and vigilantes and police. But they could easily use it to justify any repression that followed.

"Rick, you're bleeding," Rebecca said, losing her hauteur instantly as she spied his shoulder wound.

Rick wanted to say something cutting or cruel to this woman whom, he felt, had betrayed him with Thad Northwest. But he was too tired for a petty comeback, and allowed her to dress his wound with a bandage.

Outside the commotion died down, though armed men and Legionnaires still patrolled the street. Becky noticed that the police weren't bothering to make any arrests, merely watching as their victims slowly staggered to their feet and skulked sullenly down the street, watched with scared and hateful eyes by townspeople. Some, of course, didn't get up, either unconscious or dead.

"I have to go back," Rick started, staggering to his feet.

"You'll do no such thing," Rebecca said, forcing him to sit back down. "Now think, Rick, think." She looked him square in the eye with an intensity he hadn't seen since before the war, since she was Becky and he was just another young lumberjack.

"I know you're stubborn as a mule and just as tough as one, but there are still men out there looking for you to stick your head out of window so they could shoot it off. Whatever happened between us, I'm not going to let those bastards get a hold." Then her voice crumpled, and she plaintively muttered: "I'm not going to watch you die."

Rick was stunned. Ever since he'd come back, she'd shown him nothing but contempt and hatred. He didn't think she was capable of loving him any longer, or him her. Never mind all that now, he supposed, but he wasn't sure where he stood.

"Well, you can't well have a ruffian like myself fouling up your store," he managed to choke out.

"I hardly think that matters now," Rebecca said quietly. "I doubt anyone's coming in to do any shopping here today, anyway. You can sleep in my bed upstairs, if you like. I'll sleep down here."

"Very generous of you," Rick muttered. Again he stood up and managed to make it over to the counter, then collapsed again. Rebecca rolled her eyes and led him gingerly back to the chair. He sat there for a moment while she locked up the store, staring at the ground before muttering:

"I hope you cook better than you used to."

* * *

Thad Northwest, of course, was pleased by the day's carnage. He had arranged everything with the Sheriff and Sprott, though he was careful to be visiting his father when the actual violence occurred. Nonetheless, the reports he heard indicated that everything went as planned - the marchers had been broken up, but only after the first shot was fired. Now all that remained was to finish them off.

"Absolutely not," Dylan Northwest insisted, as they met in his study that night. "I'm not going to unleash those ruffians on a bunch of unarmed men. It's one thing if you're defending the town from those troublemakers, but you just shoot them down and it's going to be a mess."

"Don't think of them as unarmed men then," Thad responded. "Think of them as Bolsheviks."

"Shut your mouth with this confounded Bolshevik talk," Dylan hissed. "I swear, a little knowledge of the wider world is a dangerous thing. I've known these people for decades - they may be troublemakers and miscreants, but they aren't goddamned Communists."

Thad smiled patronizingly. "Things have changed," he said. "You're not a young man any more, and the world's a much more dangerous place now. Only a firm hand..."

"May I remind you that you were the ones who dismissed the Pinkertons and asked me not to call in the National Guard?" Dylan interrupted. "If you really wanted us to handle..."

"I explained to you my reasoning for that," Thad coolly interjected.

"A lot of good it's done us," Dylan said. He pointed to a telegram on his desk.

"You see that, Thad?" he said as his son examined the message. "Word of what happened here has already gotten out. There have been sympathy strikes all across the state, at lumber camps and saw mills and even a mine or two. The Wobblies are declaring solidarity, and even the United Woodworkers' Union is siding with Corduroy and his men. Well, this is getting out of hand. You wanted anarchy, you wanted revolution? Congratulations, you've caused it."

The old man stared utter contempt at his son, who maintained a savage, unfeeling rictus on his face.

"I'm going to phone the Governor, and see if he can mediate before this gets any worse," Dylan commented, gesturing to a servant who slipped a robe on him. "I'd rather make some kind of deal than see this town become an abattoir and my life's work a shambles. Your services in this matter are no longer needed, Thad, and remember that as long as there's blood in my veins, I'm still running this company."

Thad bowed as his father stormed out of the room. He walked back over to the desk, grabbed the telegram, and crumpled it up in his hand.

 _Of course you're still in charge of the company,_ he thought, _and you never let me forget it. I'm only giving you what you need to_ **stay** _in charge. Maybe you're too dense and complacent to see it, but there needs to be a reckoning with radicals before there can be peace._

His thoughts were interrupted by another servant. "Sir, there is someone here to see you," he said. "Says his name is Lundquist."

Thad Northwest didn't look up, those his face showed surprise. "Show him in," he muttered.

In through the door came a small disheveled Swede, bleeding from his head wound.

"Mr. Lundquist, or should I say Mr. Christiansen," Thad said, grabbing a bottle of brandy and pouring him a drink. "You did excellent work today. I'm especially pleased that you managed to shoot Corduroy and not Lieutenant Sprott. Handy as a martyr might be, we can still use him."

"Well, it wasn't by design," the Swede muttered, taking a long drink, then pouring himself another. Thad snickered, then poured himself a drink.

"Either way, I'd say today was a success." They clinked their glasses. "One more incident like this and we'll be able to bring down the hammer of God on these people!"

"Very good, sir," the Swede agreed. "I don't know how much more they will trust me, especially after today, but I will do my best."

"Well, there are other jobs we can find for you," Thad hinted darkly. "More than one way to kill a monster." He let that thought hang in the air as he finished his drink, then turned a subject of more personal concern.

"Did they find Corduroy's body? I heard he'd been shot, but not that he'd been killed."

"No, he escaped," Bob said. "No one knows where he is. Never came back to loggers' camp, I mean the strikers, but he wasn't in the street either. Must be hiding somewhere."

"Well, it's only of consequence if he shows his head again," Thad said. He stepped forward and put his arm on the Swede's shoulder, smiling his hyena grin.

"In the meantime, Comrade, we'll have to think of something else for you to do."

 _Author's note: 50,000 words, finally, and we're nearing the home stretch! Thanks again to all my readers and followers, especially fereality, KPaz and now 78meg9 for your reviews and encouragement!_


	18. Chapter 17

**July 6th, 2018**

Pacifica used to love Pioneer Days. Not because she cared that much (really, at all) about Gravity Falls' history, or connecting with the townsfolk, but because it offered living proof that she and her family were on top. Her father (and her, when she got older) would give a speech celebrating the town's founding and their ancestor's role in it. They would lead the crowd in a cheer and receive applause for the simple fact of their being Northwests, a rich, beautiful family with a rich history and spotless reputation, practically perfect in every way.

Of course, Pacifica knew perfectly well that it was a lie; Dipper Pines had shown her as much when they were 12, and she'd found evidence of her own hidden in their Mansion. Their attic contained a deep catalog of family misdeeds, which her dad called "the Hate Room." Pacifica always wondered why Preston kept such shameful reminders of the family's past; she never asked him directly about it, and always wondered.

On a good day, she figured that it was a reminder of how far the family had risen over the years - how they'd gone from a shameful past of misdeeds and backstabbing to being Gravity Falls' leading family, and indeed one of Oregon's richest. But she knew her father too well to entertain that notion, unless he was far denser and less self-aware than he let on. On a bad day, it reminded her of The Picture of Dorian Gray, a collection of ancient sins locked carefully away to absorb the family's evil as they remained prosperous and popular and beautiful on the outside.

Today she wore a light blue pioneer dress, a bit fancier than her old buckskin outfit but still plainer than what she ordinarily sported, along with white lace gloves, a pearl necklace and a bracelet. She had grown into a poised young woman, tall and angular with the same flowing blonde hair ( _not_ bleached, whatever Dipper and the online tabloids might say) she'd always had, inheriting her mother's figure and facial features from her youth as a model. She sat on the dais as Mayor Cutebiker, wearing his sash over a maroon banker's vest, gave his usual speech opening the celebration.

"We're always delighted to have host the town's founder," Mayor Cutebiker said in his usual folksy fashion. "Especially its youngest, and dare I say _prettiest_ member, coming all the way from Salem to visit us. How about that!"

Pacifica smiled, but noticed only scattered applause; mostly she saw smirks and occasional head shakes. She felt a stab of shame, knowing that her family's reputation had never fully recovered from Weirdmageddon all these years later. That was why _she_ was here, and not Future Senator Preston Northwest and his wife.

"Now let's give her a big round of applause," the Mayor said. "Pacifica, git on up here!"

Pacifica stepped forward with a smile painted on her face as shook the Mayor's hand, then doing a courtesy. She stepped behind the microphone and swallowed in anticipation, noticing a hostile crowd.

She'd done this a million times over the past year, becoming (not entirely against her will) one of her father's most effective campaign surrogates. She'd faced crowds far more outwardly hostile and angry than this. But this was different; it was more cold indifference, with everyone knowing their most recent shame, unwilling to speak it publicly but not able to put it out of her mind. And Pacifica wondered if even she, who was relatively blameless in All That, could warm them up to her.

"Thank you, Mayor Cutebiker," she began, acknowledging the biker-turned-politician. "Forget about me for a sec, let's hear it for someone who's done a lot to upgrade Gravity Falls' image into one of Oregon's most popular tourist destinations!"

The applause was sincere though still muted; Pacifica sighed under her breath, feeling sweat to bead around her forehead. This was going to be a hard sell.

"My father and mother are sorry they couldn't attend," she said perfunctorily. "As you know, they're a bit busy at the moment." A stock line; some polite laughter, but mostly scowls. "But I am thrilled to be a part of Gravity Falls Pioneer Days every year, whether as a host or an honored guest or, you know, a simple tourist. Even though we live in Salem now, this is still my favorite place in the world, and you are the greatest people I've ever met."

The crowd may not have sensed it (certainly they didn't react as she'd hoped), but she said this with utmost sincerity.

Pacifica missed the people of Gravity Falls, as quaint as they were; they were far preferable to the high society snobs her parents made her socialize with, sons and daughters of businessmen, investors and the occasional politician. Lately they'd been donors and their families, atrocious fat cats who barely even pretended to like you, but sucked up to you to get a word in your dad's ear about a campaign platform they wished to influence. She handled them with utmost politeness, but she couldn't stand them, always feeling dirty and disgusted afterwards.

"This town has been through so much over the past 155 years, ever since Nathaniel Northwest and his team first came to the Falls. That's what I like most about this area - it's always been a community. No matter what we've been through, whether building the town or mudslides and earthquakes or disease and depression or - well, you know what happened six years ago! - this town is only as strong as its weakest member. And we Northwests would be nothing without you."

This newfound modesty surprised the townspeople, who started to remember that Pacifica wasn't as bad (at least, not always as bad) as her parents, and now they applauded with joy.

"But more important than that," she continued, now smiling ear-to-ear, "this _town_ would be nothing without you. And the Pioneer Days are a celebration of how, for a century-and-a-half, we've always been there for each other. Sticking by through thick and thin, good times and bad, always friends and partners, always working towards a better future."

She watched as the townspeople, once hostile, grew engrossed; some seemed on the verge of tears as she spoke. At least I've learned _something_ from this campaign, she thought proudly.

"And I, Pacifica Northwest, am honored to be your guest and humbled to be your friend. Thanks for inviting me, thanks for coming out, and everyone have a great time."

The crowd exploded into raucous applause. Pacifica waved gratefully to the crowd, then shook the Mayor's hand enthusiastically. She reached over to Sheriff Blubbs, who, to her disappointment, gave her only a perfunctory shake. Deputy Durland, she noticed, refused even to look at her.

* * *

Never mind all that. Pacifica was more interested in connecting with her former friends. She hadn't seen them in the crowd, but knew they would be around. Dipper had texted her, hadn't he?

She thought often about Dipper. Two summers ago had been bliss, several months of inseparable flirting and time spent together, hunting mysteries and monsters and bonding in a way deeper than she'd ever expected. Then she had come on to him, much too strong, and he panicked and broke off their relationship on the spot. She felt awful about it, tried to make amends, but they never patched things up to her satisfaction. She felt like a creep, pushing away one of the few _good_ things to come out of her life since she'd become a teenager.

Right now, she was dating Chris Dirksen, the college-aged son of a green energy investor (who was, not incidentally, her). He was nice enough, though a little stiff and boring, blandly handsome with wavy red-brown hair. Pacifica didn't dislike him, exactly (he was a saint compared to some of the other jocks and jerks she'd dated), but neither did she consider him an ideal catch. He was clearly following his father into their business, and talked incessantly about it.

He seemed to regard her interests - fashion, naturally, but English literature and writing, interests which Dipper had always encouraged her to follow - as minor fancies worthy of minor notice and faint condescension. Pacifica had started a blog where she wrote, alternately, about her latest fashion tips, and occasionally puff pieces about life on the campaign trail and her dad's stance on issues. It wasn't exactly great reporting, she realized, but it was something she enjoyed, something she took pride in, and the 16,000 followers she had certainly didn't hurt.

Chris, of course, found the whole thing amusing at most, giving her only the most backhanded of compliments. "I'm glad people are reading your blog!" he had said. "For all the time you spend writing on it, it's good that people are enjoying it. And who knows, maybe you can write something about Gravity Falls this weekend. Travel back to Hicksville with Pacifica Northwest."

Naturally, Chris wasn't joining Pacifica this weekend.

She walked through the streets of Gravity Falls, surveying the different attractions, greeting and chatting townspeople and buying food and trinkets from different booths. She enjoyed being back home, and certainly didn't mind being the center of attention once more.

At least until Toby Determined ruined her day.

"Toby, what a pleasant surprise!" she said, greeting the weird little man who wore his usual suspenders and overalls. But he didn't smile, instead thrusting a turkey baster towards her face.

"Pacifica Northwest. How does it feel to be the heir to a notorious crime family!?"

Pacifica laughed nervously. "Excuse me? What does that mean?"

"Maybe news travels slow up to your hoity-toity prep school world," he said with uncharacteristic venom. "But I've been electrocuted, beaten up and thrown in prison over the past month for nothing except my having a nose for news. Not being a complete imbecile, I can guess who's behind it. All I need is proof, and then your daddy can say goodbye to the Senate and hopefully, hello to a prison cell."

Pacifica reeled at his words; Toby smiled smugly and marched off, greeting someone else recognized. She had no idea what he was talking about, but the thought that her dad might be up to something awful _again_ made her sick to her stomach.

Suddenly the rest of the day wasn't so fun; she continued making her way through town, her smiles and handshakes and small talk growing more and more perfunctory as she went. Sweating and shaken, she sat down on the porch of the library, biting her lip in distress.

"OH MY GOD, IT'S PACIFICA!" a shrill voice cried out. She didn't even have to look to know who it was.

Mabel, dressed in her brown pioneer dress, rushed forward and gave her a crushing hug.

"Oh my God, oh my God, it's been too long!" she said, holding Pacifica at arm's length. Pacifica's good mood returned.

"Mabel, what an amazing dress!" she said, admiring her friend's outfit. "I assume you made it yourself."

"You know me too well!" Mabel laughed, giving her friend a twirl. Pacifica giggled in delight, clasping her hands in excitement.

"Man, Mabel, maybe I should let you write a guest column on my blog. Frontier Fashion Tips with Mabel Pines!"

"That would be the best," Mabel squeed. "But could we call it Frontier Fabulous with Lady Mabel?"

Pacifica laughed again. "Of course." It felt so good to see Mabel again; she always forgot how silly she could be when they were apart. Their relationship, at least, hadn't changed much.

"Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't get to see your little speech," Mabel said. "I was helping Charlie get dressed. He's such a fussbucket about his outfits, you know."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, Charlie, he works at the Museum of History and helped put this whole shindig together!" She waved at someone. "Charlie, come over here and meet my friend!"

Charlie was dressed awkwardly in a denim cowboy's outfit and hate. He looked like a librarian in a Halloween costume, which of course he was. His eyebrow perked up spotting Pacifica.

"Hey, you're Pacifica Northwest!" he said, offering her his hand with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Your family's donations to us this past year really helped put this together. We appreciate it!"

"Well hey, you did a great job with everything!" Pacifica beamed. "This whole event looks so much _bigger_ than I remember from my childhood!"

"That's my Charlie," Mabel said, hugging him close. Pacifica rolled her eyes; of _course_ he was her latest crush.

"Anyway..." Mabel trailed off. "I know someone else who would like to see you," she said in a sing-song voice.

Pacifica's heart fluttered. "Dipper?"

"He's in the library," Mabel pointed. "No doubt he's eagerly awaiting your presence."

"Are you sure?" Pacifica looked down at her feet, awkwardly. "I mean, we never really made up for..."

"Oh, I'm sure he's forgotten all about it!" Mabel enthused. When Pacifica shot her an incredulous glance - both knew Dipper never forgot _anything_ \- she hastily added, "Besides, it's been two years. I'm sure he's dying to see you!"

Before Pacifica could protest further, Mabel pushed her into the library doors, then retreated down the stairs dusting off her hands.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Charlie asked.

"What do you mean?" Mabel said.

"I mean, she is a Northwest..."

"True. But she's _Pacifica_ Northwest. She's been our friend for forever, and she sure isn't anything like her parents."

Charlie still looked uncertain, so Mabel playfully clutched his hand.

"Besides, even if you can't trust _her_ , you should trust **me**!" she said, kissing Charlie on the cheek. "What did I tell you?"

Charlie smiled. "You're always right about everything."

"Exactly!" Mabel said, smooshing his hat over his head.

But Mabel started to worry, realizing Charlie had a point. They hadn't seen their friend in two years; how did she know that they could trust her? Especially with everything that her father had done since then?

She hoped she was right.

* * *

Wendy sat in a pavilion nibbling on a corn dog and some "frontier fries" (not that she noticed any difference from boring old modern-day fries). Despite Mabel's insistence she refused to dress in period costume, figuring that she

"What costume is _that_?" asked Isabel, herself sporting a Mabel-designed blue-and-white pioneer gown.

Wendy gestured dramatically to her typical flannel-and-jeans outfit. "This is your standard 21st Century lumberjill!" Both girls laughed.

"Do you know where Mabel and Charlie got to?" she asked, tugging at her bonnet. "My God, it's hot today."

"Beats me," Wendy grumbled through her corn dog. "I only saw them, like, first thing this morning."

"Oh." Isabel sat down on the table, staring thoughtfully.

"Mabel said something about surprising Pacifica, I guess," Wendy said. "Dunno why they think she's gonna help us with anything."

Isabel nodded. "Well, I mean, at this point I'm awfully curious to see how things shake out."

"Hey, my great-grandfather or uncle or whatever might be an anarchist bomber," Wendy said. "It doesn't get more interesting than that, I guess."

Isabel looked down at the table, then decided to let out something that was on her mind.

"So, are you and Dipper...?"

Wendy gave her a stink eye. "What?" She swallowed her food, wondering if she'd somehow found out about their night together the previous weekend...

"I mean, Mabel indicated that you guys have always liked each other..."

"It's complicated," Wendy glowered, sipping on her soda so she didn't have to elaborate. Of course Mabel would still be playing matchmaker, she thought. She's just earned herself a noogie the next time I see her.

"Well, I'm not gonna pry," Isabel said delicately, still staring curiously.

"'S all right." Against her will, Wendy started elaborating: "I mean, if I knew, I would tell you, but... well, me and Dip have always kind of danced around that topic. Sometimes it's just better to be friends, you know?"

"Yeah," Isabel reflected. "I mean, me and Charlie have always... like, we've known each other for a few years, and he had this phase where he had a _huge_ and obvious crush on me, but...let's just say it didn't work out."

"Been there," Wendy muttered. She didn't want to drive her new friend off, but she wasn't entirely comfortable with this conversation, either. The last thing she wanted was to replay in her head, for the umpteenth time, what exactly she may or may not feel about Dipper Pines.

Of course, it would have been easier if Graham hadn't sat down right next to her.

"Dude, what the hell do you want?" Wendy snapped, recoiling from her ex. "I thought I told you..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Graham raised his hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry, Wendy, I'm not trying to get back together with you. I was an asshole and I know it." He didn't even notice Isabel, who quietly slunk away, not wanting to be drawn into their squabble. Thanks a lot, Wendy thought.

"But I have a proposition for you," he continued.

"Unless it's you moving to the wastelands of Idaho or Kazakhstan or somewhere else I never have to see you again, fuck off," Wendy said.

Graham forced a smile on his face. "Look, don't be so hasty. This is a great opportunity for both of us. I've been asked by the Roadkill County _Times_ to interview Preston Northwest at his fundraising gala next week!"

"Whoopty-shit!" Wendy spun her finger around sarcastically.

"Anyway," Graham pouted, "I was hoping that you could come along as my photographer."

Wendy glared at him. "Dude, are you serious? Since when do you care about my photography? You've never said a word about it until you want something from me!" She was this close to whipping out her hatchet and planting it in this jackass's head. Or at the very least, kicking his testicles into a fine powder.

"Yeah, I know, I'm an asshole," Graham admitted, looking contrite. "I'm sorry. I've always been very self-involved, and that's unfair to you and anyone else I've dated. But, you know what? You're a really good photographer. You do amazing things with your camera and I think you provide an interesting complement to my article."

Wendy felt somewhat mollified by this unexpected praise, but she remained skeptical. "I mean, what sort of pictures do you need? I'm sure you could get one of your friends to bring along a fun saver or something."

"Probably, but I want you," Graham said. "I need somebody with talent so it's more than just, you know, random pictures. I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need you."

He stared as Wendy chewed her last bit of corn dog. She felt flattered, but didn't trust him. Something about Graham abasing himself before he didn't seem right.

"I'll...think about it," she said finally.

Graham nodded. "Fair enough. You have my number and my email, just let me know within a couple of days."

Graham stood up and turned to leave. Then Wendy called after him:

"Hey, Graham. If you'd talked to me like that when we were dating, we might still _be_ dating, you know?"

Graham turned back to her, his face contorted with a dozen indecipherable emotions. He forced out the words "I'm sorry" before walking off.

Wendy watched as he walked off. What was that about? she wondered. Can he be serious?

It only belatedly hit her that this might help solve the mystery. If she got into the Northwest party, even got to speak with the big cheese himself, maybe she could find something that might help get to the bottom of everything with Rick and Thad Northwest and all that bizz.

Still, why did she feel like she was being led into a trap?

* * *

"Mason Pines!"

Dipper looked up from his library book, skulking in humiliation upon hearing his given name. He looked around and saw - my God, it was Pacifica.

"Hey, Pacifica," Dipper waved.

"Hey, Pacifica," she imitated. "Is that all you have to say, dork?" She walked over and playfully batted his cap off his head. "It's been so long since we've talked. How are you doing?"

"As well as could be expected, I guess," he said, not really wanting to reiterate senior year for her. "I mean, it's weird being an adult now. I guess that's what I am, right?"

"You're telling me," Pacifica gushed. "I'm already ending up on magazine covers and websites and..." She saw Dipper's bemused face. "Not that I _like_ it, or anything, it's just surreal."

"I guess being a Senate candidate's daughter will do that to you," Dipper said.

Pacifica sat down next to him. "So, are you and Mabel researching any mysteries lately?"

Dipper sighed and closed his eyes, thinking long and hard about what he should tell Pacifica. Of all the people he knew, she might be able to solve everything at a stroke. But she was still a Northwest, still campaigning for her father...and that left out their personal history.

Finally, he decided, what the hell? I texted her, after all. No going back now.

"Yeah, actually," Dipper said, still hesitant. "That's...what I texted you about."

Pacifica raised an eyebrow.

Dipper took out a few pieces of paper, including newspaper scans and a copy of Rebecca Mercer's letter, and placed them on the table.

"We're investigating something that happened in Gravity Falls one hundred years ago," he said. "A labor dispute involving lumberjacks working for...one of your ancestors. There was a bombing in town that nearly killed him, and the newspapers blamed it on the lumberjacks. But we don't think that's the whole story."

Pacifica's face sank into an angry scowl.

"It's exactly like Dad to overreact to something like that!" she said furiously. "I mean, something that happened one hundred years ago? Who cares? Well, he doesn't want anything that might reflect badly on any Northwest ever to get out or it might hurt the campaign."

Dipper was surprised at this anguished mini-tantrum. He couldn't help making a nervous chuckle.

"Man, that sounds like it's been a long time coming," he said.

"You don't know the half of it!" Pacifica complained. "I can't stand being a candidate's daughter! No privacy, no time to relax or have fun or, you know, anything except the good will of your dad! All you are is an extension of him. And I had enough of _that_ when I was a little girl."

Dipper nodded. "So, I'm guessing you know something about this?"

Pacifica shook her head. "No, except Toby Determined had some choice words for me out there in the street. And, you know, if there was a Northwest around when trouble happened, you know they were mixed-up somehow."

"Do you know anything about Thaddeus Northwest?" Dipper asked.

"No...name doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, apparently he's an ancestor of yours who lived around that time. Son of Dylan, if I remember my tree right."

Pacifica looked confused. "Dylan's son was George," she insisted.

"Well, possibly, but we found evidence of Thaddeus Northwest existing...except that he's been rubbed out of your family tree."

Pacifica stared into space as she tried processing this. "I mean, I know my dad can do some awful things, but...how can you just completely make someone _disappear_?"

"I think he was banking on no one being interested enough to look," Dipper said. "At least until he decided to run for office. Now it looks like he's sent somebody to finish cleaning up the record."

"Oh my God," Pacifica gasped. "Wait. Is that who Toby was talking about? Said he beat Toby up and electrocuted him?"

Dipper nodded. Pacifica felt sick to her stomach.

"Wait, did you guys run into him?" She clutched at her necklace. "Did he hurt any of you?"

"We've met him," Dipper said tersely, not wanting to reveal more. Pacifica, though, could guess what he meant from the tone of his voice - she was always good at that, he reflected.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, Dipper," she said, hugging him with another burst of emotion. Dipper flushed with surprise and embarrassment, but didn't have the heart to push her away until she felt comfortable.

"Well, at this point we're more interested in putting the evidence together," he said. "Then finding out what to do with it. I mean, I don't care _that_ much about your dad's campaign, but if he's sending someone around to hurt people who..."

"That's criminal," Pacifica interrupted, "and not in the way that expensive lawyers can argue around!"

She sat back and thought, wondering what might be the best way to handle this. She looked at the papers Dipper had laid on the table, and glanced over them for a minute.

"Dipper," she said finally, after what seemed like an endless pause. "Do you trust me?"

Inside, Dipper's subconscious screamed, _Not really, especially not after what happened before_. But he went with his gut, and his heart instead:

"Of course."

Pacifica glanced down at the papers again, weighing over her next words, her future actions. She knew that whatever she did, there were so many consequences - for her, for her family, for her friends, for anyone her father decided might stand in her way. At that moment, she only thought of one course of action:

"Can you get a hold of a Xerox machine?"

 _Author's note: Extra-long chapter, part of the reason why this took longer than usual to post. Thanks always for reading!_


	19. Chapter 18

**July 8th**

Preston Northwest was tired. Not so much from the campaign, though that sapped his time and energy as it would any man. Mostly it was the six years of prolonged, agonizing rehabilitation after the events of Weirdmageddon.

Never mind the cosmic facial surgery he received from Bill Cipher - though that experience still gave him nightmares. Playing Laval to that damned Triangle ruined his finances and trashed the family reputation. The former could be rebuilt, but from birth the latter had been beaten in him, figuratively and literally, as the most important thing in the world.

Thus, when Preston Northwest arrived with his family in Salem in 2014, two years removed from Never Mind All That and the bankruptcy of Northwest Mudflaps, he determined to turn over a new leaf. Immediately he fast-talked his way into the capitol's inner circles with the savoir fare of a born investor; no one needed to know that he was broke and a demon's Quisling. Through bluff, guile and old-fashioned showmanship he got in on the ground floor of Portland energy mogul McKinley Dirksen's scheme of using rare, recent silicon materials to build a new solar powered reactor.

Preston made a fortune off his investment, which wasn't surprising or out of character. What _was_ surprising was what he did with it. He began donating to charities, first predictable ones like children's hospitals and libraries, then funding an initiative for environmental reforms and green policies. Then, to everyone's surprise and many's delight, he began speaking out on other issues, supporting gay marriage, trans rights and a "sensible" immigration policy. Soon he took over the company, mated his daughter (figuratively, if not yet literally) to Mac Dirksen's son, and used his position to grow richer than his family ever had been in Gravity Falls. To signify their newfound affluence, they even bought a mansion that once belonged to Edward Baker, Oregon's early Senator, friend to Abraham Lincoln, killed at the Civil War Battle of Ball's Bluff.

People who remembered Preston from his days as a smug small town businessman wondered what had overcome him. Was it sincere or a pose? None of them could figure it out. Perhaps getting your face shuffled changes a man. Or perhaps it was just an act. Neither interpretation was wrong, but it missed the point: Preston wanted to salvage himself, and the family name, by any means necessary. If it meant a complete, incredulous reinvention, so be it. The New Northwest would no longer limit his political activities to donations to reactionary state pols and complaints about regulatory tariffs; he would help people, and the environment.

Either way, he earned acclaim not only in Oregon, but throughout the country for his initiatives and activism. "Preston Northwest - A Force for Good" ran a profile in Forbes in early 2016, which presumptuously wondered if he wasn't a future presidential candidate. Whether the idea had previously occurred to Preston himself, a man of great but insular ego, isn't clear, but he certainly didn't spurn the notion. Of course, it might help to win a local office first.

Preston's family had always been Republicans - his father Auldman had been an organizer and convention delegate for Nelson Rockefeller in 1964 (and briefly an aide to Governor Mark Hatfield, until they clashed over Vietnam), and Preston himself, a regular donor to the state party, prized two meetings with Ronald Reagan while still Governor of California - but Preston's progressive slant was, to put it mildly, out of step with the GOP's current position. Nor did he feel comfortable with the state's Democratic Party, which was rewiring itself into a more populist posture. Naturally, there was only one thing to do - to run as an independent, the businessman accountable to no one and nothing except the voters and his own conscience.

It was a pose, but it seemed to work. While blue-leaning, the Oregon voters seemed as sick of deadlock and inefficient party structures as anyone in the country, and Preston found himself leading in a three-way race with two standard-issue politicians - a Democratic woman who mouthed platitudes about progress and equality while taking donations from corporate fat cats, a Republican man who didn't bother disguising his contempt for anyone who wasn't white, rich and male.

Preston espoused progressive stances on the environment, gay rights, women's issues and civil liberties; in contrast, he leaned conservative on gun ownership, immigration and (naturally) fiscal and economic policy. He had a platform that many pundits attacked as incoherent or wishy-washy, unable to truly capture a base, but they discounted how sick the American public, in 2018, was of party politics. He posited not as a smug demagogue out for himself, but a reformer with trans-ideological appeal. His beautiful, obedient wife and poised, energetic daughter, already beloved of social media and the press for her style, grace and articulate messaging, proved additional assets.

As always, only Preston knew how much was sincere and how much poll-driven balderdash; and it didn't seem to matter. By July 2018, four months before election day, he had a commanding nine point lead over his opponents, and his polls were trending upwards. It seemed only a miracle, or a tragedy could derail his victory.

Or an insecurity. For like many politicians before him, Preston worried obsessively about the possibility of a bombshell derailing his campaign - a revelation of some past misdeed, some gaffe or evil action that could come back to haunt him. He knew that no one outside Roadkill County would ever mention Weirdmageddon, and there wasn't anything else likely either. But his family history was...much more checkered than he cared to admit publicly, as his "Hate Room" attested.

He'd already gone to some lengths to cover up those damn Pines kids' revelations about Nathaniel Northwest; that was easy enough. But he remembered stories about the family history of crime and extortion and bloodshed, and perhaps most damningly of all, secrets about the family lineage that could still shock all these years later. Especially since he was running as a descendant of one of Oregon's Founding Fathers, and viewed himself as the inheritor of a Family Name that daren't be besmirched.

So he did what many insecure politicians do: he hired someone, a security contractor he knew through a business partner, to take care of these problems. Nobody, he realized, would notice or care that much if historical records and old newspapers started disappearing, as long as his hatchet man was efficient and discreet. But naturally, Gravity Falls had queered that reasoning, as he ought to have anticipated. And now he had to up his game.

* * *

He was relaxing in his study, enjoying a drink of brandy by the fire when Pacifica entered. She always hesitated talking one-on-one with her father; he had long since abandoned the bell for more subtle and cutting methods of intimidation and evasion. Nonetheless, she sighed and steeled herself.

"Dad, we need to talk."

Preston didn't look over at her. "Pacifica, you know this is your father's time to himself. I've had a rough day, and this is the first chance I've had to relax all weekend. We can talk later."

Pacifica felt like he'd slapped her in the face. She swallowed her rage, for the moment, and persisted.

"This is important, Dad," she said.

"Don't take that tone with me, young lady," he said, as if she were still a little girl pouting over a denied pony. He still hadn't faced her.

"I wonder what tone I _should_ adopt when talking about Thad Northwest," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

This got his attention. He rounded on his daughter, his face suddenly hostile.

"Who told you about that?" he demanded.

"No one told me, I figured it out," Pacifica insisted.

"It was those friends of yours in Gravity Falls, wasn't it?" he said, standing up. "Your mother was right, I should never have agreed to let you host that silly event this year."

"Dad, please," Pacifica said. But he approached her, looming with all the quiet, masculine menace she'd come to expect from her father.

"If I've told you once, I told you a million times not to pry into our family's history," he said. His voice wasn't loud but even, sounding more coldly disappointed than hot and angry. "There are things which even a Northwest is better off not knowing, at least until they're ready. And you, Pacifica, are not."

"Well, now I do know," Pacifica insisted. "Who was Thad and why was he erased from history?"

Preston laughed. "Silly girl, we didn't 'erase' him from history. There's plenty of information about him out there." He started pacing around the room, surveying the portraits of several generations of Northwests on the wall. "We just make sure that only a select few people know about him. Because the damage to our family could be incalculable."

Pacifica shook her head incredulously. "Why? Because he murdered a bunch of loggers in the 1910s?"

"That happened almost one hundred years ago," he scoffed. "No one would care about that."

"Then what?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "Dad, you sent someone to try and kill people over this. I talked to Toby Determined and..." At the last moment, she remembered not to explicitly identify her friends, "...other people who ran into your little bald goon. I have to say, I'm doubting if you got your money's worth if all he managed to do was electrocute himself and steal the wrong roll of microfilm."

Preston turned his back to his daughter, staring thoughtfully at a portrait of Dylan Northwest with a young child at his side as she spoke.

"And I've seen other documents too," she said, wanting to impress the gravity of her father's situation on him without revealing too much of her hand. "If you don't tell me what's so dreadful serious about all this, I'm going to post it on my blog."

"Your blog," he said. "Right between your articles on Favorite Fall Nail Tips and Yummy Campaign Eats in Beaverton?"

"Dad, my blog has thousands of followers. If someone reads it..."

"If someone reads it, they'll ask why you're campaigning so hard for a man you think is a liar and a criminal. Maybe a few people will believe you, and maybe it will be a news story for a few minutes."

He turned towards his daughter, finally, adopting the condescending tone she'd come to expect from him.

"But don't worry. We'll make sure to take down your blog as soon as you can. Any screencaps or articles about it can be dismissed as the work of cranks with a grudge or overzealous reporters. If asked, we'll tell them that you were feeling stressed out about the campaign, but you're doing fine now, aren't you?"

He turned and patted Pacifica on her head, then turned back to the fireplace. She scowled at him, but her resolve started crumbling.

"It's all right, Pacifica," he said, voice dripping with a gross caricature of sympathy. "I know how hard it is to be a Northwest. I've lived with that burden for over fifty years. It's a heavy responsibility, but someone has to do it. Imagine if all the secrets we have got out - if they escaped my little hate room."

He spilled his brandy on the fire, which emitted a harsh _whoosh!_

"We wouldn't be the only ones effected by it," he continued, placing the glass on the mantle and wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "And certainly I wouldn't be the only Northwest you'd be hurting." He turned back towards his daughter, looming over her again. She cringed in fright.

"So no, I don't think you'll share this on your blog," he said coldly. This wasn't a threat or a command, merely stated as a fact. Then he pulled away from her and went over to a bookshelf, grabbing the authorized family biography and taking it over to her. chair.

"So far as everyone knows, the only history we Northwests have is in this book. And no one's going to rewrite it, especially not you."

Pacifica wanted to say something devastating, to defy her father, even if just to tell him to go to hell. But a lifetime of quiet oppression crushed her will to resist, and she bowed her head.

"Yes, Dad."

Preston nodded and cracked open the book. "Now, we'll talk about this some other time," he assured her with the stubbornness that indicated that some other time would never come. "Run along and let your father enjoy his alone time.

Pacifica exited the room, dejected. She choked back her sobs, wishing that she were as brave and as her friends. But she wasn't, and she hated herself for it. She spent the rest of the night in her room, glancing at her cell phone, wondering what she could say to Dipper or Mabel that wouldn't feel like betrayal.

Eventually, she spelled out the words:

 _"Dipper - I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you."_

Then she laid back on her bed, staring at the ceiling until she no longer had the will to stay awake. Wondering if someday, she'd have the will to be as brave as Dipper, as happy as Mabel, even as tough as Wendy.


	20. Chapter 19

Dipper read Pacifica's text and threw his phone across the room. "Dammit!" he shouted, before dropping his head into his hands.

Being Dipper, he immediately assumed the worst. Why did he think telling her would be a good idea? Why did he trust her to make scans and copies of their documents? (At least the originals were stored safely in McGucket's house for the time being.) He should have _known_ that Pacifica would place being a Northwest above being a decent human being.

He tried reassuring himself that Pacifica hadn't done anything to actively impede him - so far as he knew. But that was cold comfort, and it wasn't anything he could verify. He didn't know if she had blabbed to her father and shown him all the incriminating documents or not. Or worse, if her father (or even her) had tipped off Baldy, who for all Dipper knew was dragging himself out of his grave for a rematch.

Now he and the rest of the Mystery Team had to figure out what they'd do with the information. Leak it to the press? Publish it themselves? He didn't have a clue, and neither did anyone else.

Except Stan, who made what seemed to him the most obvious suggestion in the world:

"Dipper, we've got dirt on a political candidate and businessman. This is a golden opportunity for blackmail! See how much money the old bastard will cough up. Or at least use it as leverage so he'll drop out of the race."

Ford shook his head and warily objected. "Stanley, blackmail is not the answer here. We can't act like criminals to beat a criminal."

"That's _exactly_ how you have to act, Poindexter," Stan told him. "Trust me, people like Preston Northwest only respond to a few things: threats to their wallet, threats to their reputation, or if all else fails, fist talk."

Ford groaned, amazed that he had to explain to his full-grown brother why this was wrong.

"Grunkle Stan, I think I'm with Ford on this one," Dipper said. "It would be better just to release it and let it destroy him. I mean, it's beyond the point."

Stan sighed and rubbed his eyes. How, after all these years, could there be so many good-goodies in his family?

"Ford, I know _you_ refuse to know better, but Dipper...Things don't work that way. I didn't complain to you about growing up during Watergate to put you and Mabel to sleep. I saw an entire political party prostrate themselves before a crook of a leader until the absolute last moment. I saw writers and politicians and my own damn father twist facts and meanings of words to prove how Tricky Dick Nixon wasn't _actually_ guilty and then if he was, it wasn't a big deal, what about everything the _Democrats_ did? What about Chappaquiddick or gross words that LBJ said on the phone? Like we were only angry at Nixon for having a potty mouth!

"And _that_ wasn't the worst of it. I heard an idiot priest go on TV claiming that our president spinning anti-Semitic conspiracy theories was 'locker-room talk' - sound familiar? I saw Charlie Sandman, the Congressman our dad elected to represent us and uphold the Constitution, embarrass himself day after day on television telling America how the President shouldn't be impeached because Democrats were mean. I saw some other Congress-schmuck give a speech right before Nixon resigned saying that he'd stand by the President until someone shot both of them. Still disappointed that no one took him or Mr. Sandman up on that offer. At least we kicked his ass to the curb that November - one of the few good memories I have from my teen years.

"And then he was pardoned, and he got to live the rest of his life in lucrative exile rather than rotting in a prison cell with Haldeman and Liddy and the rest of that evil gang where he belonged. All those investigations, all that media coverage, all that division and anger and frustration - for _nothing_.

"Now, I know people like Ford took away the lesson from Watergate that the System works, but that's a load of horse shit. You can get away with a lot worse than what Nixon did, as Reagan and Clinton showed us, and as the current Demon in the White House teaches us every day. Deep down, people don't _care_ about this stuff. If they do care, it's only for a moment and only because they liked being shocked. It's like a twist in a soap opera, or one of those dumb reality shows Mabel and Soos like. And people treat it the same way, because they think politics and government are a game or a show or a _sport_ where they cheer for their team even if their team is full of objectively horrible creeps who piss on every principle claim to stand for.

"And face it, no one's going to care about something that happened a century ago when Americans are still defending Confederate statues and slavery and need occasional reminders that Adolf Hitler was a bad man. God knows they have a million built in excuses about evil labor unions and dirty Commies.

"Well, fuck that. I say, if you can't beat 'em, bleed 'em. A bastard like Preston Northwest deserves nothing less."

Dipper and Ford were silent in the face of Stan's tirade. Stan warily sipped some coffee, allowing his point to sink in.

"Grunkle Stan," Dipper ventured, a bit unsure of himself. "I don't know anything about Watergate or any of that other stuff, but I see where you're coming from. But, you know what? I don't think it has to be that way. I still think enough people care about good government that they won't let someone like Preston Northwest in office. At the very least, I think it's worth trying."

"Little Jimmy Stewart over here," Stan said, annoyed and proud in equal measure. "Your parents must have raised you right, because you sure didn't get that from me."

Ford smiled too, as Dipper picked up his phone, checking to make sure it still worked.

"Well...I guess we have four months to figure out what we can do," Dipper mumbled. "I'll talk to you guys later." And he exited, going up to his room.

"Stanley," Ford began, "I don't think I could challenge a single thing that you said. I don't remember what Clinton did, since I was in Dimension 645X that year, and God knows I can't stomach watching the news any more. But even if we don't care about politics or government, shouldn't we try to help the kids? What's Preston Northwest next to Bill Cipher?"

"You got me there, Ford," Stan said. "There aren't many things I'd do for the Body Politic, but Dipper and Mabel are another story. What do you have in mind?"

Ford thought for a moment. "Well, we can start by dealing with Dipper and Mabel's friend from the Museum." He pulled out a file folder which he'd received from Deputy Durland earlier that day.

"His name is William Alton Questadt," Ford said. "I thought I recognized him from Dipper's description, and the security footage from the Shack's cameras proved it. He used to attend UFO conventions and the like in the '70s posing as an enthusiast when he was really gathering intel for the government about believers. He was always very conspicuous, even before he shaved his head, since he'd just stand around listening and watching everyone. Which is _exactly_ how you'd attract attention at that sort of event. He was kind of a joke, because he obviously wasn't very good at his job.

"Sometime in the '80s he started doing more serious work for the CIA. He was involved in negotiating for hostages in Lebanon and Iran and played some murky role in Iran-Contra - never figured out what, but we heard enough stories. Something tells me he wasn't any better at that job than hunting aliens, because he washed out of the Company around the time of the Gulf War and started working as a private security contractor for non-discriminating millionaires."

"Real tough cookie, huh?" Stan said laconically, tapping his finger on the table. "And now he's beating up teenagers for a living. Swell!"

"He's about our age, but still pretty dangerous as you can tell from the other night," Ford said. "Still, I'd say the kids put up a good fight, since he wound up in Gravity Falls Hospital for a week with head trauma. He checked himself out earlier today, though."

Stan spilled his coffee. "What? You mean that creep is back out there?" He instinctively bolted from his seat, clinching his fists at his sides.

Ford nodded grimly. "And now that the Northwests know we're on to them, I'm not confident that he's just going to fade into the woodwork."

"What do you suggest?" Stan demanded.

"I told Durland that all the material we're keeping on the investigation is up at Fiddleford's place. He's going to slip word to Questadt so that he knows. If everything goes according to plan he'll walk right into a trap."

"That's a mighty big risk you're taking, Sixer," Stan said, puzzling over the details of the plan. "I hope McGucket's on board with this. Never much liked the old man, but I don't want him getting shot by this guy either."

"Fiddleford knows what's at stake and he'll take any risks he needs to," Ford assured his brother. "If we trap this guy and get him to talk, it will go a long way towards unraveling this whole thing."

Stan bent over the counter, sighing heavily. He thought for a long moment, feeling there were a million ways that this whole thing could go badly, that he and Ford and McGucket and - God forbid - the kids could be hurt badly or worse. All for a political campaign he didn't give a damn about. Still, it would be nice to bring down somebody who fully deserved it. To prove that even in such a rotten age as their own, there was something resembling justice.

"All right," Stan said finally, turning slowly towards his brother. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

Charlie Huston appreciated having a normal work day. Mostly it was record keeping and tedious clerical stuff, which was boring but necessary, and a good way to take his mind off the busy, traumatic events of the past few weeks. Then a kindly old couple arrived, asking for help researching an ancestor who had served in the Civil War then moved out to Oregon. Charlie helped them pore through a few volumes he'd looked at a million times, watching their faces light up with amazement at a small but important entry in an old ledger book.

It pleased Charlie to make someone's day, to resolve a minor league mystery that had been nagging a family for years. Made him feel important, even if maybe a half dozen people would care about what he offered them. He just wished that his current adventure could be so easily resolved.

He still struggled to sleep at night remembering what had happened to him, still bore a scar on his chest where the prod had impacted him. When he dreamed, he dreamed lightning. He still hadn't told anyone at work what had happened, or any of his friends or family outside of Gravity Falls - where would he _start_?

Still, a few things kept him going. The thrill of the chase, of something that would yield results far more substantial than a small article in the Museum's newsletter. He always wanted to make a difference on his own terms, rather than in a way society demanded. That he got to hang out with the Pines Twins, and Wendy Corduroy, the three coolest people he'd ever met. That he loved Mabel, or thought he did, or at least knew that she was an amazing girl who astonishingly hadn't rejected him at a glance, and would do anything to help her and her brother out, regardless of the stakes.

Mabel or their mystery weren't necessarily on his mind when he and his colleagues - Mary, his boss, their education director, Phyllis, and their young curator Bob - sat down to lunch, eating leftover pasta and discussing the most annoying phone calls they'd received from vendors and donors since Pioneer Days ended, about how much stress and fun they'd experienced. About how nice it would be, at least for three of them, to return to normal.

Then Mary mentioned that she had received an offer from Preston Northwest to attend a fundraising gala the following weekend. As an honored guest, the invitation said, due to the Northwest's longstanding patronage of the Museum. Mary had been invited along with a "plus-one," but she expressed no interest.

"Why the hell would I want another heartless rich bastard in the Senate?" Mary asked. "God knows that Washington's full of those already."

"Does that prick think we forgot what happened here six years ago?" Bob demanded. "You'd think he'd be smart enough to forget about us completely."

"Yeah, his little Stepford daughter came to Pioneer Days this year instead," Phyllis added. "Couldn't be bothered to come himself."

"Well, he didn't want us throwing tomatoes at him again," Bob snickered. Charlie wondered if Pacifica was really that bad, based on their brief interactions and what Mabel and Dipper had told him, but kept silent.

A thought popped into his head. He remembered Dipper saying something about the Northwests keeping all of their dread secrets locked in a hidden room inside their home, and wondered (felt sure, without anything like proof) if they still did. And immediately, impulsively, he asked if he might have the tickets.

"Charlie Huston, you are _brilliant_!" Mabel enthused when he told her about this. "We can be like secret agents, retrieving the darkest, most dangerous secrets from inside the villain's lair. While dressed as stylishly as possible, of course!"

Dipper was a bit more skeptical. "I dunno, man, it seems like a pretty big risk to me." He thought of all the different ways this mission could go wrong, and wondered if his sister were the right person to handle it.

His sister dismissed him. "Dipper, you wanted to know how we could resolve this mystery, maybe even find absolute proof," Mabel said. "Think about it, Bro-Bro! You know the Northwests just have all kinds."

"But without knowing what we're looking for..." Dipper objected.

"Do we _need_ to find a particular thing?" Dipper stared at his sister incredulously, until she elaborated:

"Like, we might not know specifically what about this union lumberjack dealy we're looking for. But think about what you told us, Dipper. A century-and-a-half of Northwest secrets locked away in a room or a vault, waiting to be exposed. If it's not this, we'll have plenty of other dirt to choose from. It's everything we could possibly want to bring down this jerk and his whole family - Pacifica excepted!" Beat, as she tried reading her brother's face, then added: "Maybe!"

Dipper thought long and hard. Could he trust Mabel in there without him? Could he trust Charlie with his sister? Could he trust that they would be able to find what they were looking for? Could he expect the Northwests to be so careless as to leave incriminating evidence where inquisitive teens could find it?

All his answers to those questions, as hard as he tried, were at best maybes. But he felt his sister's enthusiasm, combined with his own curiosity, overcoming any doubts. He remembered how they'd overcome impossible odds.

"Okay, let's do it," he said weakly. Charlie and Mabel high-fived, hard; Charlie recoiled from her powerful smack, as Mabel mumbled apologies.

Dipper called Wendy later that day to tell her what was going on. First, she informed him about Graham's invitation.

"I think that jerk still thinks that he's going to win me back over with his amazing interviewing skills, or whatever," Wendy moaned over the telephone. "Can you _believe_ that guy?"

"Wait, Wendy, that's our in!"

"Huh?"

"Mabel and Charlie attending as guests of the Northwests! Having you on the inside too is perfect!" He felt a little better knowing that even if he couldn't be there, Wendy would be.

On the other end of the line, Wendy sighed heavily, not answering for the longest time. Did she really want to solve this mystery _that_ much, that she'd force herself to spend another day in the presence of someone she roundly hated? Was it worth it? Were Dipper and Mabel?

"All right dude, I'm in."

And slowly, over the next few days, the foursome began to form a plan.

* * *

This time, the Man - Mr. Questadt - wasn't messing around. He brought with him not only his cattle prod but two high-powered handguns, concealed within a long coat. Before he'd wanted to avoid bloodshed if he could; now, he was willing to mow down a town full of meddlesome kids and quarrelsome hicks if that's what it took.

He managed to sneak in without alerting McGucket's burglar alarm, crept through the yard, into a side door. Then into the foyer, into his kitchen, past the lab. All of McGucket's elaborate equipment and strange experiments interested him on some level; if he were still with the Company, it would be a major find. But he had a different job to accomplish tonight. Maybe some other time, he could sate his curiosity.

As he moved towards the study, he heard McGucket puttering around, humming a nonsense tune to himself. He drew his cattle prod, hiding behind a corner as the hillbilly scientist walked past towards the bathroom, seemingly oblivious. Questadt sighed with relief and put his prod away.

Questadt sneaked into the study, noticing that there was a large safe in the middle of the room. He walked up to it stealthily, pressing his ear against the lock in an effort to suss out the combination. It had been awhile since he'd cracked a safe without using dynamite, but this seemed like a basic combination that could be easily unraveled.

He was so immersed in his work that he didn't notice the figures stepping into the study, until one of them closed the door. He turned his head sharply, absently reaching for a gun. He saw Ford, arms crossed and a determined grimace on his face. And he saw Stan, with brass knuckles fastened to his fists, lumbering towards him.

"Hey there, Cueball," Stan said, smiling with undisguised malice. "Got a minute?"

 _Author's note: Apologies if the early parts of this chapter range into the realm of diatribe. I studied Nixon heavily in school, and considering when Stan and Ford came of age, and where (Charles Sandman was a real, odious person), I couldn't resist invoking him in a story about corruption. Regardless, Stan seems exactly like the kind of person who'd still be steamed about Watergate four decades later._


	21. Chapter 20: April 1919, part one

_Author's note: The next two chapters will contain more "adult" content, including graphic violence and sexual menace, than any other segment in this story. Reader discretion is advised._

 **April 1st, 1919**

For the past two weeks, Rick Corduroy had tried keeping the Gravity Falls Loggers' Collective together. Unfortunately, their clash with the Legion and the police in the town streets had driven a wedge in the group, between those who urged violent retaliation, others who wanted to quit the strike and throw themselves on the mercy of the Northwests, and those few who continued siding with Rick.

Headlines in the local papers howled about REVOLUTION IN OUR FAIR CITY!, branding Rick and his comrades with the predictable epithets. Balancing the hysteria were sympathy strikes in other logging camps throughout the state, leading to fear of a general shutdown of all Oregon. The Governor put the National Guard on alert, wired Washington, DC for help, even invited Mayor Ole Hanson of Seattle for assistance in crushing the incipient rebellion. Hanson, who had resigned his position after the Seattle strike concluded to become a lecturer, arrived in Salem to give a well-paid speech on the perils of Bolshevism, then left without providing any actual advice or assistance.

It was a scary time, with ordinary Americans unable to separate real threats from phantom revolutionaries. In the East, bombs would DC, New York and a dozen other cities later that spring; strikes, or threats of strikes, moved the entire country to terror. Within a few months Attorney General Palmer would round up thousands of immigrants and suspected radicals without warrant or formal charges. The President, incapacitated by a stroke, did nothing to curb the excesses, or else actively encouraged them; local authorities, businessmen and radicals nourished it to their own ends.

Naturally, in the logger's tent city, the loudest agitator was Bob Christiansen, who advocated throwing in with the Wobblies and syndicalists, who said that guns and dynamite could do a lot more than words and marches. Many of his men, who bore scars and bruises from their savage encounter with Sprott's Legionnaires, seemed eager to agree. Two of their number had perished in the fighting (including young Scott Lodge, who lingered in a coma for four days after the riot before dying) and they weren't eager to negotiate.

Rick still hadn't forgiven Christiansen for touching off the riot (let alone shooting him personally), and wondered what use the reckless Swede could be at this point. Or, indeed, if he was a threat. He had taken to bringing his ax into bed with him, just in case someone tried a one-man coup. And some of his more reliable allies joined him: solid John Cox, for one, kept vigil outside his tent with a double-barreled shotgun, daring anyone to try.

Still, Rick decided that solidarity, for the moment, mattered more than internal divisions, and squashed those who warned him to oust the troublemakers. He told his friends in one of many interminable meetings:

"We will continue fighting as one group, with one voice," Rick said. "We aren't going to start throwing bombs or taking drastic actions that will give them an excuse to crack our heads. Keep it peaceful, keep it together and we'll see this through."

The lumbermen still respected Rick enough to take his advice as gospel; they nodded their assent and with scarcely a grumble returned to their tents, civil war averted. But Rick sensed that they'd reached a point where he couldn't restrain them for much longer.

He started wondering whether he shouldn't have taken up Mr. Wentworth's offer and found honest, soft and safe work away from the town. But he banished it from his mind; he was a logger, a real man who took pride in his work and wouldn't dare do anything else. Still, at this point he felt he could only pray to God for a miracle to deliver him and his friends before disaster befell them.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Rick, Dylan Northwest seemed likely to deliver that miracle. He had seen enough bloodshed and didn't want any more. The sight of demonstrators lying cracked and bleeding in the streets made him sick to his stomach. Within Dylan, sentimentality and contempt, power and paternalism always wrestled for control. Despite the hysteria his allies and son whipped up around him (the Mayor offered to raise an army of gunmen to extirpate the "Bolsheviks") he insisted upon a sane course of restraint.

He appealed to the UWWA leadership, who sent their Vice President, Lewis Stone, to participate in a mediation. The UWWA was as mild and moderate a non-company union as existed in 20th Century Oregon, and even they had been disgusted by what people were already calling "the Battle of Gravity Falls." And while Governor Alcott seemed predisposed to unleashing his soldiers on any agitators, he sent a young aide, Charles B. Ware, to Gravity Falls.

The three men met in Northwest's drawing room, and they drafted a petition to send to Rick Corduroy. They would parlay with the lumbermen and enter into negotiations, agreeing that Dylan Northwest would rescind any terminations in exchange for a reasonable agreement on benefit and wage increases. Final terms would, of course, be subject to approval by the Board and the union leadership, but Dylan was still confident that they could.

By that evening, the petition was mostly completed, and Dylan Northwest invited Messers Stone and Ware for a tour of scenic Gravity Falls. There wasn't much to see as they drove through town, except mud and dirty streets, cracked windows and blood spots that were a reminder of why they there in the first place. Mr. Stone harrumphed that it was a damn ugly town, and Mr. Ware said nothing. Chastened, and not a little embarrassed by their reaction, he invited them back to his residence for another drink before they retired for the day.

Perhaps, Dylan Northwest thought as he scanned the town, it was time for modernization - more roads, more schools and projects to make the town less of an eye sore, to relieve consciences shaken by the fighting in their streets - to make Gravity Falls a great place to live, rather than an eyesore whose only distinguishing features were trees and inexplicable critters. But that was a project for the future. He had to resolve this ugly matter with Rick Corduroy first.

The petition was never sent; when Northwest and his party went out, a servant dutifully placed it in the drawer of a wooden table off to the side. That table, and its contents, would be obliterated that night by a stick of 40 percent dynamite. The explosion would also break windows, blow out the walls, shattering the ceiling, demolish cabinets and their contents, shiver Mr. Ware's torso to unrecognizable fragments and turn Mr. Stone into a human pin cushion, causing him to drown in his own blood before help arrived. Only Dylan Northwest would survive, and only then because the merest quirk of fate and nitroglycerin blew a wooden plank against his body, knocking him away from the worst of the blast, rendering him unconscious but alive.

* * *

Thad Northwest spent most of that evening with Rebecca, taking her out to dinner and escorting her home. They spent some time in her foyer, with Thad talking animatedly about events overseas. Rebecca noticed that he seemed less concerned with the Peace Talks in Paris than riots in Egypt and Wales, revolution in Hungary, and fascism's birth in Italy. He wasn't sure yet whether Benito Mussolini was admirable or monstrous, but his tough talk against socialism made Thad cautiously optimistic.

He relished chaos, Rebecca noted warily; his mind could only think in apocalyptic terms. To him, the lumbermen in Gravity Falls and the Welsh miners, Bela Kun and Benito Mussolini, the Kaiser and Lenin were all one and the same. The whole world was embroiled in one endless conflict, and he was determined that his side win, whether or not he was right. Not only did it make him an amoral man, she thought, it made him a boring, fatuous companion.

Still, Rebecca sat silently, allowing him to bloviate, feeling that letting him talk was less harmful than allowing him to take action. She just smiled and nodded, occasionally rolling her eyes or smirking at his more ridiculous comments, thinking back to more pressing matters.

Of course, she daren't tell him that she had saved Rick Corduroy from certain death during the street battle a few weeks before, or that she had given him refuge, first in her store and then in her home. Or that, after several days, she had started seeming him less as the lumpen logger and more as the dashing, kindly man she had loved before the war, that he seemed full of energy when he discussed worker's rights and basic living, that he seemed, somehow, even more alive than he had before the war.

Any penny dreadful novelist could have predicted what happened next: they fell into each other's arms with a long-repressed, scarce-recognized hunger and made love. And did so again the following night, until Rick decided he was needed back at the camp before things degenerated any further. Leaving Rebecca with memories of bliss and feelings of regret, hoping that once things sorted themselves out, they could find a way to rekindle their relationship.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Thad's latest comment. "Of course, it all depends on Rick Corduroy."

"What?" Rebecca was stunned by his mentioning the man she'd spent so much of the evening thinking about.

"Well, my father and his aides want to negotiate," Thad said off-handedly, "and of course everyone wants a peaceful solution." (His downcast glower, Rebecca thought, indicated that **he** did not.) "We'll have to see what that screw-loose brute has to say about it, though. Of course, it's entirely possible that some of his own men might take matters into their own hands."

Rebecca was stunned by this remark. "What do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes the vanguard acts without organization," Thad explained, relishing that his knowledge had finally captured her attention. "In Russia, for instance, it wasn't the Bolsheviks who triggered the Revolution but soldiers mutinying in the cities. Or in France, there wasn't an organized call for the Jacobins to storm the Bastille. Sometimes a particularly clever man or group of men will take the initiative and everyone else has to follow him. Perhaps such a man exists in the logger's camp."

"Oh, you'd _love_ for such a man to exist, wouldn't you?" Rebecca snapped. "You'd love an excuse to stamp down on those poor lumbermen."

Thad clapped his hands in surprised glee. "Of course I would! No question about it. There needs to be a reckoning, and if they're the ones who light the fuse, so to speak, so much the better. Of course, there's no reason why we couldn't give things a push in that direction."

Rebecca quickly registered the implications of this; her eyes fluttered in horror.

"I can't believe you think human lives are a game like that," she shouted, standing up from the table. "Thaddeus Northwest, I demand that you leave my home immediately."

He stood up facing her with a complacent smile on his face. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you are no longer welcome in this home, or anywhere near me," Rebecca said firmly.

Now Thad's face contorted into a savage, snarling smile, and Rebecca felt a pang of fear in her chest. If she thought her fiancee was nothing more than a mean, fatuous oaf, he would soon disabuse her of the notion. He grabbed her wrist and pulled close, looking like a wolf about to pounce. Rebecca started to tremble, struggling to maintain her composure.

"Well, maybe it's no longer up to you," Thad growled lasciviously. "Maybe it's no longer up to you and your filthy lumberjack friend or the town elders or the soldiers or least of all my father. You and all Gravity Falls will help forge a new order to help cleanse this entire country."

He squeezed Rebecca harder, pulling him closer to her, as he started to rave. Rebecca grew terrified, trying to pull away. She wasn't strong enough.

"And if it requires the death of a few men," he rambled on, his voice turning into a sharp bark, "a few goddamned timber beasts or a whole pack of them, a few worthless old fat cats or stiff-necked soldiers or God knows some uppity women who think they know better than their men...Well, the first casualty will be your dignity."

He reached for her dress and tore open the bodice, causing her to scream.

The scream was drowned out by the explosion across town.

* * *

Rick Corduroy had heard the explosion and instantly fathomed what it meant. He called for all the lumbermen to assemble in the center of their camp; within minutes everyone did, all carrying tools or rifles, their wives and children huddled fearfully around them, all illuminated by the roaring fire.

"What happened, Rick?" Gene Black asked, clutching his wife with one hand and an ax in another.

"We heard an explosion," someone else called out. "What in tarnation...?"

"All right, everyone, be calm," Rick promised. "I don't know what happened, but it can't be good. Those bastards in town have been looking for an excuse to settle our hash and whatever this is, they're going to use it against us."

Now he looked at the crowd of scared, apprehensive loggers, looking for signs of guilt and fear.

"Now, there've been some _grumblings_ in this camp lately," Rick said. "People unhappy at the way things are going, that I'm not strong or forceful enough to reach a reckoning with the plutes and the scissor-bills. Well, I'm saying right now, if anyone here went behind my back to cause trouble, let alone _kill_ someone, boss they may have been, you'll have to answer to me. And by thunder, I will split you in half where you stand before I let you get away with it."

He noticed the loggers recoiling from him in fear, as he clenched his ax with barely-restrained fury. John Cox stepped up beside him, grim and silent as a rock as usual.

Finally, someone piped up. It was little Lenny Stoller, one of the youngest lumbermen.

"Rick," said the boy, gangly and freckled and still a teenager, "I know that Bob was planning to go into town and send the Northwests a message. Those were his words. I swear, I didn't know what he meant by that," choking back tears in fear of his boss, "I never thought he would..."

Rick growled audibly. Of _course_ it was Bob. That squareheaded bastard had been asking for trouble ever since things had started. He looked Lenny in the eyes with undisguised anger, then snapped himself out of it.

"Everyone, the Northwests are going to come and they're going to play for blood," he said. "Everyone with a gun, get it. Hide the women and children best you can. If they want a fight, they're going to have it, and we aren't going to go quietly."

There weren't any cheers or applause, just shouts of panic and a resolute flurry of action as the loggers snapped into action, tearfully hugging and kissing their families before racing to the perimeters of the camp, hoping to throw up makeshift breastworks of trees and logs before any invaders could arrive.

Overhead, rain started to fall on the scene, and thunder flashed in the distance. And a solitary rider approached on horseback at breakneck speed. Rick and the others turned towards him, watching as Bob Christiansen emerged from the shadows, panting heavily from his ride. As he dismounted, the loggers gathered round, watching the Swede silently as he walked into the camp.

"Everyone," he said breathlessly, "there is news." He dismounted, barely noticing as two lumbermen hurriedly pulled his horse away from him.

"Someone blew up the Northwests' home," he said. "They say Dylan Northwest, the Governor's man, someone from the United Woodworkers - all killed! Obliterated."

No visible reaction, from Rick or anyone else. Only cold fury. Bob seemed amazed by their evident nonchalance.

"Well, by jiminy this means that they're going to come here and fight!" he said. "We've won the first round at a stroke, and now we just..."

"We're all going to die because you're a blockheaded fink," Rick said curtly. He gestured silently and several men grabbed the Swedes, pinioning his arms.

"Fink? But Rick, what do you mean?" Bob pleaded, struggling against his erstwhile colleagues.

"I don't know if you're just an idiot or if you're actually working for the Northwests," Rick continued. "Either way, it's the same. All you've done tonight is condemn all of us to death, whether by bullets or bombs or bayonets or the end of a rope. The least we can do is return the favor."

"No wait, Rick, I..." The Swede choked out panicked words as a mob approached him, brandishing knives and axes and other implements. His incoherent pleas soon turned to bloodcurdling screams.

Rick stood back, watching in grim satisfaction as the loggers tore the hapless provocateur to shreds.


	22. Chapter 21: April 1919, part two

_Author's note: as with the previous chapter, there will be some graphic violence and non-graphic references to rape in this chapter. Please read at your discretion._

 **April 2nd, 1918**

Even had Thad Northwest wanted to mourn, he had no time. He paced anxiously through the town, barely stopping to glance at the townspeople gathering in the streets, awoken and terrified by the explosion, with police constables trying to keep everyone calm. He could see ambulances and horse-drawn fire engines making their way up to Northwest Manor; even from this distance, he could see that an entire side of the building had been blown out, the flames still burning despite the intermittent rain and the frantic efforts of firemen to extinguish it.

Looks like Mr. Lundquist did his job well, Thad said, struggling to keep his satisfaction to himself.

A woman grabbed him as he walked past. "Oh Mr. Northwest, we heard what happened to your father. Thank God you're alright."

Her husband pulled her back. "Just so you know, if you need any help I'm with you," he said, brandishing a revolver to emphasize his statement. "We're not gonna let those Reds take over this town."

Mutters of affirmation sprinkled through the crowd, several townspeople starting to gather around him. He simply nodded in gratitude, glad that his action was having its effect. Not only were they scared, they were angry - angry enough to kill, it looked like. Soon he would put that to the test.

Thad's thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Morrison, the foreman rushing forward in his nightshirt.

"Oh Thad, thank God!" he said. "Some of the early reports said you were in the mansion."

"No, I was taking care of a personal matter," Thad replied with calculated evenness.

"What a goddamned nightmare," Morrison said frantically. "I was up at the mansion - they said the union man and the Governor's aide were dead when they arrived. At least your father made it."

"What's that?" Thad said.

"Mr. Northwest is still alive," Morrison said. "Shaken up pretty badly, might have broken a few bones, but he's doing all right. They're taking care of him at the hospital."

"Well...that is good news, at least," Thad said, disappointment bleeding onto his face despite his best efforts. He realized that his plan to wait and lead an organized attack on the logger's tent city wasn't operable if his father was alive to countermand it.

"Citizens of Gravity Falls!" he shouted, hopping onto a sidewalk. All of the townspeople gathered around to listen.

"Tonight we see the true face of our enemy," he orated. "Cowardly assassins sneaking through the night, throwing bombs into homes and murdering men in their beds." (A little demagogic hyperbole never hurt with a crowd like this, he reasoned.) "We could expect nothing less from Communists. All the more reason we need to wipe them out!"

The crowd cheered him, blood in their eyes and anger in their voices, waving guns and pitchforks and other implements. Thad relished his control over them - even the constables stopped what they were doing to listen - then pushed his hands down to quiet them.

"But I'd remiss if I didn't add a personal note," he said, abruptly adopting a somber tone. The crowd murmured to themselves and looked at him in askance.

"This evening, I went to call on my fiancee, Rebecca Mercer," he continued. "Unfortunately, the brute who did this had beaten me there. I found her in the foyer unconscious and bleeding, her dress torn. Worse than that, he -" he feigned tears - "he _**violated**_ her."

Gasps and shouts of shock passed through the crowd; they were electrified.

"It is one thing to murder men, even if they are unarmed and helpless," Thad continued, tears brimming in his eyes. "But to destroy a woman, to subject her to a fate worse than death...It is _**unconscionable**_. These men are not only radicals, they are monsters, human only in shape, no better than the foulest Negro from darkest Africa. And we cannot reason with them! We need to cleanse ourselves of this pestilence, and do it now!"

The crowd stood silent, in horror and disgust, weighing in their collective conscience a course of action. Then the deep, growling voice of the town wagon master shouted:

"Git 'em! Git 'em!"

The other townspeople erupted into shouts of affirmation. One of the constables tried to take over, and began organizing them into a body. Thad skulked away, slipping into the nearby telegraph station and watching from the shadows as the mob began to organize. He had done his work well.

Now he grabbed the station's telephone and placed a call.

"Hello, Sprot," he said into the phone. "It's time to clean things up."

* * *

And so, a mob of about 200 Fallers marched, braving the rain and the wind, with all the usual vigilante accouterments. Some had guns, others farm implements, still others brandished ropes and torches whose flames fluttered in the foul weather. Someone thought to bring an American flag, as if to justify the extralegal action they were undertaking. All had murder in their heart, but despite their number and fury they were merely a mob, not an army.

Meanwhile, Thad returned to Mr. Morrison's office at the mining camp. Lt. Sprott had assembled a dozen picked men, who stood in their khaki uniforms with Northwest company patches on the shoulder. They waited until Thad arrived, bursting into the office wearing a black cape and riding boots.

"Gentlemen, the day we've planned for is here," he said, gesturing to two assistants who brought out several heavy parcels. They placed them on the ground before Sprott's men, who opened them up and saw Browning Automatic Rifles, custom made for the Northwest company.

"Just remember when we're out there that we're not only defending the company any more, we're defending Gravity Falls," he lectured, examining his men who, for the most part, stared forward obediently. If they had any doubts, they kept them to themselves. "We're defending the country. And we're the only ones who know what needs to be done to save it."

Thad walked over and grabbed his own rifle, snapping a magazine into place. "I'm sorry the weather isn't better for us, but we may not get another chance. Time to move!"

The men stepped forward without a word, trudging out into the yard of the labor camp, toting their heavy rifles at waist level. As they marched, they could see the dimming fires of the strikers' camp before them, hear over the wind the sound of saws and axes frantically cutting. Thad realized if they wanted to win, they had to work quickly.

* * *

Rick Corduroy tried his best to make the camp defensible, but there was only so much his men could do. A few men felled logs to form makeshift breastworks around the most likely routes of attack, but even so they had few guns and would be defenseless against a large, well-organized crowd. Rick reckoned, however, that any crowd would indeed be large but hardly well-organized.

The crowd, led by Constable Moran who toted an ancient Krag-Jorgensen rifle, marched from the west down the main road. There the approach was narrow, and Rick and his men could easily stop them with a few logs and concentrated gunfire. He was less confident about any approach from the logging camp, where there were rocks and shadows that any attackers could use as cover. He decided to gamble, posting most of his gunmen at the road and let come what may. It was a fatal miscalculation.

When the mob appeared, Rick climbed atop the barricade nearest that road. He carried his ax in one hand (as usual, he refused to carry a gun). "Gravity Falls, we have no quarrel with you! Go back to your homes! This is a dispute between us and the Northwests. No one else needs to be hurt."

"By Heaven, we have a quarrel with you!" someone shouted back, followed by an excited murmur.

"You monstrous bastards!" someone chimed in with a Celtic accent. "Murdering like thieves in the night."

"How dare you outrage Miss Mercer!" a third person added.

Rick looked puzzled. What on Earth could he mean? Had Rebecca told someone of their liaison? The thought didn't interest him that much, nor did the loggers pay it attention. There were more pressing matters than cryptic accusations.

Constable Moran stepped forward, holding his rifle to his chest. "This is a matter of law and order," he said. "Throw down your weapons and we'll give you all a fair trial."

Rick laughed. "Fair trial?" He looked around at all the weapons and torches and ropes. "Looks to me like you've already reached a verdict."

John Cox stepped up beside him, aiming his shotgun at the crowd.

"Last chance, Moran," Rick said. "I didn't do it, but I know you don't care about guilt or anything like that. You just want to kill us because someone whispered in your ear that we're Communists. Well, we aren't. But we are men, and we won't be taken like animals!"

"Hear, hear," someone shouted. Lenny Stoller, at the barricade, tensed and aimed his rifle towards the constable.

"You've had your chance, Corduroy," Moran thundered, cocking the bolt on his weapon.

A single shot pierced the air; no one knew who fired it, then or later, and no historians or reporters or dispassionate juries would care to find out. All anyone knew is that it started the second Battle of Gravity Falls.

A volley of shots crashed out from the loggers behind their breastworks. The crowd held steady at first, un-intimidated by this show of force. Then two of the leading crowd members fell, shot through the leg and shoulder, and the rest started to waver. A few of the more daring held fast and returned fire, but their shooting was poor in the dark, and the breastworks absorbed most of the bullets. Screams of panic started to break out as the firing dragged on.

Some of the more daring members rushed forward, carrying torches and axes, determined to fight their way over the barricade. A few scattered shots splattered the wood around him as he thought. John Cox started to aim his shotgun, but Rick thought of another course.

"Hold your fire!" he insisted, then leaped down and pushed the top log on the breastwork forward. Several of his colleagues realized what he was doing, dropped their weapons and went forward to join him. After a long minute, their bodies strained and their thoughts drowned out by shouts and crashing gunshots, they pushed the log off its makeshift perch and sent it rolling towards the mob.

The leading attackers scattered like nine pins, diving for the brush and dropping their weapons. Others, who had stopped by the side of the road to return fire, also ducked out of the way. The rest simply ran, panicking before the runaway log, their blood lust swallowed by panic. A few attackers remained, putting up a feeble rearguard action with guns and thrown missiles and curses, but they too quickly melted away as Rick shook his fist at them and shared a choice gesture of opprobrium.

The lumbermen shouted "Hurrah!" as the mob receded. Only two men had been seriously hurt, and none of their own. It was nearly a bloodless victory, they thought, and something to be proud of.

Only Rick seemed to sense that the battle wouldn't be won so easily. He expected the mob to regroup for a second attack, perhaps smaller but more determined than before, and that the previous experience would be continued until one side or the other gave up.

He didn't expect the attack that ultimately came.

* * *

A burst of automatic fire erupted from the bushes near the logging camp, seemingly aimed at the women and children clustered in the city's center. Two men on that side of the striker's camp turned towards the fire and were cut down with quick, savage bursts. More shots were fired into the logs and tents, sending wood and canvas and tin from cooking implements flying everywhere. Rick shouted for everyone to hug the ground, but not all were fast enough; a third logger fell, shot through the throat and gasping for air until he mercifully expired.

The rain started coming down harder, ruining visibility, making it hard for Rick or any of his colleagues to spot the muzzle flashes when Thad's men fired. He turned to John Cox, who lay beside him on the ground with his shotgun close to his chest. Rick had an instant flashback to France, remembering what the Germans had done to his platoon, and suddenly resolved that he could do it again.

He gestured to Gene Black who ran over, his outfit splattered in mud, crouching down beside Rick.

"Gene, I'm going to take care of these bastards," he assured him. "Get the women and kids to safety."

"Where am I taking them, boss?" Gene demanded. "Nowhere to hide."

"Goddamnit, I don't care!" Rick roared as lightning crashed overhead. "They can scatter into the woods. There are caves and hollows and all kinds of places to hide."

"What if they come hunting for us?" he asked. "Bring dogs and horses and whatnot? We won't be able to-"

Another burst of gunfire from above, another bullet ricocheting off a tin pan. The two men instinctively ducked.

"Better to take their chances out there than to get shot down like dogs," he said. Gene thought this through, then nodded, jumping to his feet. He tried shouting a command to everyone, gesturing wildly, but the wind and thunder drowned him out.

Still on the ground, Rick turned back to John Cox and smiled at him.

"John, just so you know, everything we did in France was horseshit," he said. "This is the fight that really matters."

Cox stared at him inscrutably. "I don't know about that, Rick, but if you're in it I'm in it with you."

Rick chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. He saw the lumbermen slowly herding the women and children towards Gene, who was telling them the plan. Then another savage burst of automatic fire came down, sending everyone scattering for cover.

"GO! GO!" Rick shouted, waving at Gene who repeated the command. Not looking back, he grabbed his ax and became lumbering up the hill after their attackers. Without any more words, John stood up and followed after him.

* * *

Thad noticed the loggers starting to disperse, smiling with glee. He figured that he could wait until they started to file out of the camp, then cut them down in the open. Unfortunately for his plans of wholesale massacre, the weather rendered his aim unclear and worse, the. Besides which, the BARs kicked like a mule and he found it extremely hard to aim consistently, shooting high and to the right. He saw the men under his command, especially Sprott and Dix Durland, handling the weapon much better.

As he scooted forward for a closer aim, he noticed the two figures shambling out of the camp towards them. He had a suspicion who they were, and laughed to himself as he loaded a fresh magazine. Time to settle a score or two, he thought, gesturing for his men to hold their fire.

Thad fired a burst at them, and Rick and John again crashed to the ground. He kept firing, but still couldn't correct the aim adequately, firing high over their bodies. After he ran out of ammunition, the two loggers leaped back on their feet and commenced, marching steadily closer until he could see their faces. They couldn't be more than 30 yards away by now, he thought.

Still, on they came. Rick bore a look of grim determination, unfazed by the shooting or the prospect of imminent death. He knew what he was doing, and was resigned to dying for a good cause. If possible, though, he would take that bastard Northwest with him first.

Thad stepped out into the open and aimed his rifle again. Again, he shot too high and too far over their heads; this time they barely flinched. John dropped to his knees and fired a blast from his shotgun. To Rick's amazement, Thad cried out and fell into the brush.

"Mr. Northwest," Sprott said, betraying a rare sign of panic. The men around him looked at each other, unsure what to do. Then Sprott snapped forward and fired several bursts, tearing Rick's left shoulder blade and sending the lumberman crashing to the ground.

John ignored the fire and aimed his shotgun again, firing a blast that crashed at Sprott's feet. Sprott's last shots went wide, and as he sighted John again his gun _clicked_ , empty. As he sought to feed the cartridge, Rick had staggered back to his feet, bleeding and breathing heavily as he lurched forward, still dragging his ax behind him.

John advanced first, now just about 10 to 15 yards away from the gunmen. He snapped two more rounds into his weapon and aimed it; the shooters, old friends of these men, and in Dix's case comrades-in-arms, were awestruck by the sight, wondering if in fact they were on the right side, if they had the stomach to shoot down their friends even as Sprott barked at them to shoot...

Then John leveled his shotgun again, splattering Sprott in the chest. Instinctively, Dix Durland fired two bursts from his BAR and John Cox stopped in his tracks, dropping his shotgun and falling into the mud without a sound.

Still, Rick came onward, blood and rain streaking down his barrel chest. Dix had a clear shot at him, but couldn't bring himself to kill another friend. After a moment, despite clearly seeing the anger and hatred in Rick's eyes, he stood up and threw his rifle to the ground, smashing it.

It was as if he'd broken a spell. The other men slowly stood up and repeated his action, some going further and manually smashing their weapons to bits. They'd had their fill of killing, of making enemies of their old friends,

Rick nodded in appreciation, stopping in his tracks. Dix looked at him mournfully, smiling, and for a brief moment it seemed like they were back in France, back before all this unpleasantness, and they could be friends again.

Then he saw John's body lying in the mud, and reality intruded. Really, friendship wasn't possible. The only thing he could do, the only thing that seemed right, was to lead his men away, leaving Sprott and Thad and John and their guns and hatred behind. And they slowly, ashamedly about-faced and trekked back towards the logging camp.

Rick watched in surprise until they receded into shadows. He couldn't believe that, despite everything, he had won. He thought of John and the other loggers who had perished that night, and whatever had happened in town, and now _another_ Northwest dead, and new that they'd won a temporary respite. That soon, police with billy clubs and National Guardsmen with bayonets would show up and wreak vengeance with the full power of the State behind them.

But still, for tonight he - _**they**_ \- had faced down evil, and won. And Rick couldn't help feeling proud.

Then a shot cracked through the air, and Rick fell.

* * *

He awoke to lightning flashing across the skies, thunder rumbling overhead. He couldn't tell where he'd been shot; the first wound had splattered him with blood, and he couldn't feel anything anywhere. He wondered if he was dead, worried whether he was paralyzed.

Then he craned his head, and saw Thaddeus Northwest staggering forward, one hand clutching his side, the other a revolver that he aimed shakily at Rick.

"You bastard!" he hissed, his words bleeding into the latest thunder crack. "Not enough that you have to infect our town with your vile bacillus, destroy my father's company and degrade my woman -" he fired, shot splashing harmlessly into the mud. "You also have to _live_. Not if I can help it." He fired again, missing again.

Rick slowly started to sit up, head down. His eyes scoured the ground, his good hand groped for his ax, John's gun, any kind of weapon.

Another shot struck him in the chest, but he barely noticed. Nor did he notice the next shot which missed him completely, or yet another that clipped below his right knee. He only noticed when Thad stood over top of him, illuminated by lighting, aiming his revolver at the lumberman's head.

"Rick Corduroy, once you were a hero," he proclaimed, pressing his gun against Rick's forehead. "Now, you are _shit_."

 _Click. Click, click_.

Thad incredulously fired his pistol again, and again, and again. He couldn't believe it. At his moment of triumph, it was empty.

Rick's fingers curled slowly around the shaft his ax as Thad took a step back, emptying the chamber of shells, fumbling for fresh rounds.

Rick let out a mighty roar as he raised himself up on one knee. Knocked the gun out of Thad's hands with the back of his ax. He briefly slipped as he attempted to stand, allowing him a glance at the villan's terrified, incredulous face, a vile monster brought low by his own design, and bad luck, and a better man.

Rick roared again as he drove the ax head into Thad's belly, nearly cutting him in half. Thad had just enough energy to wrench himself away from Rick, staggering back several steps before doubling over, crumpling into the mud.

Rick watched his body for a long minute, then nudged it backwards to ensure Thad was dead. With the ax handle he managed to steady himself and stand over his opponent, now staring wide-eyed at the heavens as another thunderbolt crashed behind them.

Suddenly the energy wore off, and all the pain and blood caught up to Rick. He felt his energy slipping away, made a brief effort to fight it, then decided no, you knew full well this might happen, it's too late to back out now. He let the ax slide from his hand. Besides, you did the only thing you could have done to save the town from itself.

He fell to his knees in the rain, letting it wash his blood into the ground and his memories and regrets into time. Rick blinked, opened his eyes, and didn't move again.


	23. Chapter 22

_Author's note: Thanks to everyone who's reading and commenting! Besides fereality and Kpaz, special shout out to William Easley for his recent reviews, critiques and correspondence._

 **July 12th, 2018**

"All right, everyone," Dipper announced to the assembled Mystery Team. "The big Northwest gala is in two days. Let's make sure everything's ready to go for Operation Infiltration. Soos?"

Soos unveiled a crude map which he'd sketched on a piece of drawing paper. He'd arrived at the Northwest Mansion posing as a maintenance guy to do reconnaissance.

"Well, I'm sorry that this isn't, like, the most artistically accomplished thing ever, but I'm pretty happy with it," he said. "Except for the chili stains, don't mind those. Anyway, there's a big foyer here with a reception area, they're going to have the maitre'd signing everyone in. You go down the hall to the right for the dining room, on the left is the ballroom where I think everything big is going to be. The kitchens are in back of the dining room, and there's, like, a maintenance closet and a restroom tucked away in between the kitchen and the ballroom.

"On the second floor, over on the left...well, there was what I think Mr. Northwest's private study. I'm guessing that's what it is, because the sign on the door said Study - Private. But, who knows? That could be like a ruse or something. Anyway, they wouldn't let me in.

"Anyway, the hall curves around over a balcony. There's another reception area in the middle, with two entry ways. If you move to the right, there's..." He paused to enumerate them with his fingers. "Pacifica's bedroom, her parents' bedroom, then another little office or study. Servants' quarters are in a separate annex attached to the kitchen, I think, but I didn't get to go in. There was this guy, a weird French type named Pierre, he showed me around and he even gave me these cute little sandwich thingies on toothpicks. Very thoughtful!"

"Soos, stick to what's important," Stan interrupted.

"Oh, right, sorry dudes," Soos said. "It's just, you know, sandwiches. Anyway, there was another room way in the back around here (he gestured to a room on the far left, behind the study). There were a couple of storage closets, I think, but this one - like, Pierre said that it's only accessible to the Northwests. This room has, like, a hidden passageway you can only get through with a password or combination or something. Or you can access it through the study, but good luck getting in there! Anyway, it sounded pretty suspicious to me."

"Thanks, Soos," Dipper concluded, impressed at his friend's thorough recounting of his visit, even if the squiggly line drawings and attempts at sketching lamps and furniture amused and baffled him. "Now, Grunkles Stan and Ford, what did you find out?"

Stan stepped forward, his glasses crooked over his nose, his left eye still swollen. "Well, Ford and I had a friendly conversation with your friend Baldy last week. Nice guy, once you get to know him and kick the crap out of him a bit. He didn't know too much in the way of specifics, but he did tell us that our boy Preston's been gathering any incriminating evidence about the Northwest family that might be out there."

"Anything?" Dipper was agog. "Grunkle Ford, is that true?"

They looked at Ford for a long moment, waiting for him to react. Stan loudly cleared his throat. Ford, whose ear was still partially deaf from Questadt firing a gun at point-blank range next to it, took a moment to realize they were talking to him.

"Oh, sorry!" he said, rubbing his ear. "Yes, our friend Mr. Questadt wasn't very talkative. But he eventually told us, after some persuasion, that he's been traveling all over the country looking for scraps and glimmers of information to hoard away. He told us that Preston Northwest keeps them all in a secret room."

"That's stupid," Mabel said, putting her hands on her hips. "If he's been going to all the effort to hide that stuff, why wouldn't he just destroy all that?"

"Who knows what goes on in the head of someone like that?" Ford asked, shaking his head. "Maybe he loves the idea of getting away with it. Maybe secretly relishes the idea of getting caught. Or maybe he's just an idiot. Who knows?"

"One thing politicians aren't is smart," Stan agreed. "Either way, I bet if we can get inside that room Soos was talking about, we'll have our answer for this and some other scandals, besides."

"Great!" Dipper said. "Of course, that's easier said than done. Wendy?"

"Well, Graham and I have this exclusive interview with Preston Northwest," she said. "So we're going to go in this study and sit down with him. I doubt Graham's going to ask him any incriminating questions, but at the very least I'll have a chance to look around, see if there's a way we can get to the stuff we're looking for. I mean, it's not hacking a shapeshifter with an ax or anything, but we'll play it by ear."

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Mabel, how are things going for you and Charlie?"

"Well, Isabel and I have spent all week making the perfect party dress," she said excitedly. "But you'll have to wait until Saturday to see how it looks! Also, Charlie and I are going to look around for this room Soos was talking about, see if there's a way we can get inside."

Charlie coughed and adjusted his glasses. "Yeah, the problem is, unless we know the combination for the lock or whatever it's going to be hard. And I don't know jack about computers or numbers or hacking things." He looked downcast and turned to Mabel. "Too bad Dipper can't go in with you instead."

Dipper shook his head. "I'd love to, but you know that Preston knows what I look like. We've met each other more times than either of us would care to remember. At least with Mabel...I mean, sorry sis, but I'm not sure he ever paid you much attention."

"Well, he's a poophead anyway," she replied.

"The main thing I'm concerned about is Pacifica," Charlie added. "I mean, I'm sure she'll know who he was."

Dipper nodded grimly. "That's a risk we'll have to take," he said. "At least everyone's clear on...well, maybe not every contingency imaginable, but at least the general plan?"

"Yep!" Mabel said.

"Sure," Wendy said, giving a thumbs up.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Charlie muttered.

"We'll be monitoring everything a safe distance from the party," Ford said. "Close enough that we can provide back-up if necessary, not too close that we should be detected. We'll be able to listen in on everything and maybe even direct you."

"That's awesome!" Mabel said. "But, like, how will you do that?"

"You want them to wear a wire, Poindexter?" Stan asked.

"Something like that," Ford said, pulling out a small ear bud. "Either Mabel or Charlie could wear this. There's a receiver that you can hide somewhere on your body, and a small speaker that you'd put in your ear. It should be about the sound of a loud whisper so no one else can hear it, and it won't drown out any conversation you come across. It's very advanced tech. I designed it myself."

"You're a miracle worker," Stan butted in. Ford scowled at him.

"Anyway...I suggest that you wear it, Mabel. Just because your hair should make it easier to conceal. You'll have to find somewhere on your upper body to place the receiver. Is there anywhere you can hide it?"

"Like, maybe a pin or something?" Charlie asked. Mabel turned to him, surprised.

"That would be a good idea," Ford agreed.

Charlie sheepishly reached into his pocket. Mabel gasped as he pulled out a small box and opened it up. It was a small, shimmering shooting star pin!

"OHMIGOSH! Charlie, thank you so much!" She gave him one of her patented Mabel hugs and kissed him on both cheeks, then snatched the pin away from him and examined it in the light. "It's so beautiful! And shiny! It's like you knew I loved beautiful and shiny things!" And she hugged him again.

"Well, you might have mentioned it once or twice," Charlie sputtered. "I was going to wait until, you know, the night of the gala, but..."

Mabel had already pinned it to her sweater, showing it off to everyone. "Isn't it fabulous, everybody?"

"Nice, dude!" Soos said.

"Totally awesome," Wendy said, admiring the pin. Dipper nodded.

"All right, now that we're already ready..."

"Wait, one other thing." Mabel snapped out of her Shiny Trace and fished out her phone. She dialed a number and put it on speaker.

"Mabel, is that you?" A familiar, Korean-accented voice came on the line.

"Hey Candy, did you get the files that I sent you?" Mabel asked.

"Sure thing, Mabel!" she replied. "And I have my contacts in the _Statesman Journal_ , the _Oregonian_ , the _Register-Guard_ , the _LA Times_ , the _Seattle Times_ and...well, let's say a few other places that would be very interested to have this information, all on my email list."

"Did you send a copy to Grenda, too?"

"Of course I did! And I made about six dozen back-ups and paper copies of the documents, as well. Plus if all else fails, my father went to school with the regional editor for the Associated Press. So, one way or another, this story will come out."

"Great!" Mabel said.

"Ready to leak it when you say."

Dipper felt a need to interject. "The only reason we're asking you to hold off is because...well, in a couple of days we might have even more things. This could be huge, like a big state or even national story. Things that wouldn't be of mostly historical interest to people."

"I understand, Dipper," Candy said. "I thought the story and documents you sent me were pretty interesting, but I'm not sure everyone would. If they knew Preston Northwest was going out of his way to make trouble about it, though...That's a different story. Either way, good luck and let me know how everything goes."

"You're the best, Candy!" Mabel said. "Sorry about Summerween."

"Don't mention it, Mabel, this is more important. Talk soon and good luck." And Candy hung up.

"That was great thinking, Mabes," Wendy said.

"Yeah, I'm really impressed," Dipper said. "Nice work, sis."

"Aww, well I didn't want us to come this far and then lose it, or have someone steal everything. And Candy is a _master_ at networking!"

"Still...thank you." Dipper didn't know what to say.

Mabel slugged her brother's shoulder. "How many times do I have to tell you, Broseph? You aren't the only genius in the family! Mwop."

"Well, we've still got two days to put everything in order," Ford said. "When you have your dress ready I'll show you how to fit on the receiver and everything."

"I wish I'd let my hair grow out this year," Mabel lamented. It was a little past her shoulders now, but her traditional hip-length do would have been much better for the task at hand. "Oh well, we have to make do."

"Hey, it's not like you're bald or anything," Stan joked, rubbing her hair.

This reminded Dipper of something that had been troubling him. "Uhh, guys, that reminds me...What did you do to that Questadt guy?"

Ford and Stan looked at each other conspiratorially.

"I mean, it's great that you got him out of the way, but...you didn't like, _kill_ him or anything?"

"Of course not," Stan said. "Yeesh, this kid. After we got what we wanted, we convinced him it wasn't worth his while to pursue this case any more."

"How'd you do that?" Mabel asked.

Ford answered. "We asked him whether it was really worth all this trouble for the sake of Preston Northwest, and he thought about that. He said something about already making enough money off this case to retire, and that it wasn't worth getting his bell rung every time he stuck his head out in public. Now, I'd still be careful in case he's lying, but the man's had two rough encounters with the Pines Family so I can't say that I blame him."

It wasn't the answer they were looking for. All that trouble with Baldy, and he was just leaving them alone? It didn't make sense.

"What? No." Wendy said.

"I don't believe it," Charlie scoffed.

"That's, like, a total cop out," Soos said.

"You expect us to buy that?" Dipper demanded.

"Fine, fine," Stan said. "If it makes you feel better, I socked him so hard his head came off and we buried his body in a hole in the desert outside Vegas. We mounted his head on a pike for display at the Mystery Shack as the Dreaded Punk-for-Hire. Is that cathartic enough for ya?"

He turned to Ford, smiling. "See, you aren't the only one who can use two dollar words."

* * *

A few minutes later, after their meeting broke up, Dipper caught up with his sister in their room. She was still fondly examining the pin Charlie had given her, a rapturous smile painted on her face.

"Hey Mabel, great thinking in there with sending Candy all that stuff," Dipper said.

"Hey, better safe than sorry with this stuff," Mabel said. "They've tried killing us for it, bro, we might as well make it safe."

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his head. "I wish there was a way I could join you."

"Me too," Mabel sighed. "But it's not like I'll be alone or anything. Wendy will be in there doing her thing, plus Charlie..." And she let his name trail off, eyes fixed on the pin.

"You really like him, don't you?" Dipper asked. "Like, is this the epic summer romance you've wanted every summer we've been here?"

"See, I don't know if you could call Charlie _epic_ ," Mabel said. "He's more like, I don't know, those slow, talky prestige dramas with Colin Firth and that other British guy that always come out around Christmas, that Mom and Dad like. I've never been crazy about those, but...now that I'm a little older, I see the appeal."

"I'm glad," Dipper said. "He's a nice guy."

"Speaking of which," Mabel said, "are you and Wendy...?"

"Umm, what?" The question caught Dipper off-guard.

"Come on, bro. I know you guys spent the night together the other week."

"How did you know about that?" Dipper panicked. Had Wendy blabbed their secret?

"I mean, I'm not stupid. Wendy was really frazzled that night like all of us, and I could tell she needed someone. It's not like she was going to cuddle up with Grunkle Stan, right?" She made a disgusted face, and the two chuckled awkwardly.

A long pause, then Dipper sighed and slumped down on the bed.

"You know Mabel...it's been so many years since I've met Wendy, and she's still the most awesome person I've ever known. I thought...Every year, I think I'm going to meet someone new and put her out of her mind and accept that we're just friends. But, it's like, that's _so hard_ when I like everything about her. It's not even just her looks or her personality or anything obvious like that, it's just the whole package. And now...I don't know, Mabel."

Mabel slid down on the bed beside him and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. "Bro, it's okay. If it makes you feel any better, the difference between 18 and 21 is a **lot** smaller than the difference between 12 and 15. Trust me. Now, I'm not saying I'm gonna set you guys up again" (she made sure to cross her fingers on her free hand behind her back, _just in case_ she changed her mind) "but I think you have a shot."

"You mean it?" Dipper smiled at his sister.

"Yeah, I mean, just be yourself. But not the weird Dipper. Not the Dipper who makes lists and plans and sweats a lot. Just...be you, bro-bro. **That** 's who she likes."

"Thanks, Mabel," he said. Then something else came to mind.

"You know, sometimes I have to remind yourself that you're the same age as me. I mean, sometimes I still think we're both twelve years old but...you're a lot more mature and smart than I give you credit for. I'm sorry if I ever make you feel dumb or, you know, less than me. I just wish I could be like you, sometimes."

"You don't," she assured him. "You're the best twin anyone could ask for. Besides, you've been mature since we were little kids. You came up with your first conspiracy theory at age six!"

Dipper laughed. "Oh yeah, the Easter Bunny-Santa gift-giving consortium. I'm not sure that counts as mature, though..."

"Well, whatever you'd call it," Mabel said.

"I guess the difference between you and me is that you're very comfortable in your own skin, and I'm, totally not." He sighed again. "I mean, I think that's what's been bumming me over the past few months."

"You think I'm not insecure?" Mabel said in astonishment. "Dipper, I'm a teenage girl! I have to compare myself to all my classmates, all the singers and actresses and celebrities on TV and in the magazines and the internet and everywhere. And then you have to worry about fashion and boys and dieting and boys and...It's hard to be secure about _any_ of that, especially when you're a weird kid like me."

"You're not weird," Dipper instinctively blurted out, watching her sister swallow that dreaded word. Then he back peddled:

"But, I mean, even if you were, you know who you are and you accept it. That's what's hard for me, you know? I've got a scholarship and a general idea of what I want to do, but...so what? If I spend my life chasing the paranormal and things, who's going to take me seriously? I mean, it's not like Grunkle Ford's had an easy time with his experiments or anything. And I love the guy, but I'm not sure I want to end up like him, unable to relate to people and things."

Mabel wanted to say something, but kept her mouth shut, letting her brother talk. This was a conversation she'd wanted to have with him for a long time, and she wasn't going to stop him.

"Besides, what good is succeeding if I can't do it beside you?" he asked. "Maybe that's bumming me out, too." He seemed about to cry, leading Mabel to pat him on the back.

"Been there, Dip," she assured him. "Don't forget, I almost ended the world because I was worried about the future! No matter how bad you feel about yourself, at least you won't have that hanging over your head."

Dipper smiled with tears in his eyes. "Thanks, Mabel."

"You're welcome, Dipper," she said. "And, I mean, we can make it work. There's Skype, there's Facebook, there's email...It will be hard, but it won't be impossible. Plus we'll see each other every few months anyway."

"You know, we had this exact same conversation six years ago," Dipper said, laughing slightly.

"I remember it very well," Mabel assured him. The two stared at each other, anticipating their next move.

"Now, is this an awkward sibling hug or a sincere one."

"Let's play it by ear." They embraced, with all the love of two siblings who hadn't ever, and wouldn't ever be separated from each other.

"Pat, pat."


	24. Chapter 23

**July 13th**

One day left, and Wendy Corduroy wanted nothing left to chance.

For all her scraps and fights and assorted traumas over the years, she'd never really honed her skills in spycraft. Hiding herself in a tree from a predator or concealing herself to get the drop on one of Dipper's Eldritch abominations wasn't the same as sneaking into a swanky party with the goal of finding incrimination information. Her dad had the complete Blu-Ray set for James Bond, and she decided to watch a few to take notes. Though she enjoyed the mayhem and the assorted beefcake 007s, she did not find them as instructive as she'd hoped.

For a start, she had only one decent dress, an emerald green number that she'd worn to her senior prom and never returned or worn since. She hated dressing up like a doll - at most, she'd wear a golf shirt or a dress outfit with a tie, which didn't exactly scream feminine sophistication. But neither did Wendy, who'd rather spend a week in a tree eating pemmican and staking out bears than an hour at a fancy dress ball.

Fortunately, Graham told her that she could dress relatively informally as a photographer ("I think we can get away with business casual," he'd said, and Wendy did have a few blazers she could iron and throw on in a pinch). So that was fine. But she still wasn't clear what, exactly, she could do as Graham's cameraman?

Dipper tried reassuring her. "If nothing else, you can get inside the study and see if there's anything to see," he said. "Then pass it along to Mabel or come back yourself. And who knows? Maybe you'll get a chance to take Preston down from the inside. I mean, there's nothing wrong with having a badass in reserve."

Wendy laughed and nodded, but she wasn't entirely sure. She hoped she could be useful.

She wished Dipper were coming in with them. For some reason, she'd feel a lot more comfortable if her favorite dork were there to help out.

Well, not _some_ reason - she knew why. He was a lot better at this investigation stuff than she was. And he would be better-placed to spot or interpret anything important. And because, well, being with Graham was far less appealing than being with Dipper.

Graham had been on his best behavior over the past few days, not talking himself up and even working with Wendy to come up with a series of questions and possible photographic angles ("He's going to want to look awesome, but maybe we can find a way to bring him down to Earth," he suggested, sensibly if vaguely). But Wendy didn't trust him enough, personally or otherwise, to let him in on the Mystery Team scheme. At best, she thought he wouldn't interfere. Or maybe he would even help in a doomed gesture and come in handy purely by accident, trying fruitlessly to impress her with his heroism.

She kicked herself for thinking that way - for feeling like it's okay to play with a guy's feelings. But then, this was _Graham_ she was thinking about. She still doubted he cared more about her for anything more than a pretty sounding board. She knew she would never do that to someone she genuinely cared about - like Dipper.

Well, _that_ problem still wasn't resolved. She still couldn't stop thinking about that night at the Shack...she still tortured herself, torn between guilt at trapping a friend into an awkward situation like that, and the memory that it felt nice and comfortable and _right_. And that a larger part of her than she wanted to admit wanted to do it again.

But she told herself she wasn't going to worry about that until their mission was completed. She just hoped that her role would do some good. And that she could get through the evening without killing Graham.

And that everything they were doing, all this sifting through records and uncovering decades-old secrets about her family and Northwests like some hyper-caffeinated grad students, was worth all the aggravation. She hoped that Ford was right, that Rick had been framed for whatever went down in 1919, but she wouldn't feel better unless they found something that proved it.

On that score, only time would tell. She had to trust Dipper, and that she'd do in a heartbeat.

* * *

Ford didn't want to leave anything to chance, either.

He knew that there was a better-than-even chance of everything going to Hell. He didn't fully trust Questadt's assurances that he was done with the case, and he was sure the Northwests would have other security guards, possibly even cops, on hand to foil any effort at digging further. He and Stan were tough as nails, but they couldn't just rush into a society gala and start punching people, as much fun as Stan would find it. And he felt bad that Dipper was being left on the outside.

In addition to Mabel's headset - they made sure that they could conceal the earpiece under a lock of hair brushed _just so_ , and the receiver under Charlie's pin - Ford wanted to equip her with some kind of video feed or camera, which would come in handy in deciphering any lock or combination. He couldn't find anything in his arsenal that quite matched that description. Then he called McGucket, who designed a nifty micro-camera that could fit inside a piece of jewelry. Ford and Mabel stopped by his home to pick it up, and he fit it inside a small ring Mabel wore on her finger.

"You see, it's very simple," McGucket said, dialing up the video equipment. "There's a small button on the right side, just under the gem. Push it once and it will start broadcasting." He demonstrated; a video feed appeared on his screen. "Push it twice and you'll take a still picture. You just need to be discreet about it, and if what you're after is in a room somewhere that shouldn't be a problem."

Ford hadn't always trusted Mabel to be serious, and regretted it. But he knew that his niece would never want to let her brother down, especially if he couldn't join her.

He, too, wanted Dipper along, even if Dipper seemed okay watching and supervising everything from the video feed with Stan and Ford. They thought about finding a way to sneak Dipper in with Soos, but Soos pointed out that "they'd, like, totally recognize me from the other day. Besides, I don't think he's gonna have maintenance issues in the middle of a party." Then he thought about having Dipper pose as part of the catering crew.

Dipper insisted, however. "I don't care about Pacifica, but Preston knows who I am. It would be too risky. I only want to go in there if everything gets out of control."

So Ford devised an emergency plan - one that Stan thought was stupid and tried to talk him out of, but allowed him to call in a few favors. First, he called Deputy Durland and met him at the Deputy's home.

"You've already done a lot for us, and I wouldn't ask you unless I absolutely had to. In fact, if everything goes according to plan, we won't need your help. But..."

Durland passed Ford a drink. "What do you have in mind?" he asked, without hesitation.

"Just in case everything goes to hell in a hand basket, the kids are going to need our help. I want you to help me organize some people as a rescue squad. We can pose as a SWAT team or FBI agents or something. We'll have Mabel or Wendy send us an emergency signal if they run into a problem. Then we'll enter and make sure everything's okay."

"That's pretty risky," Durland said.

"Not to mention it's breaking the law," Sheriff Blubs intoned.

Durland and Ford looked up in surprise to see Blubs in a bathrobe, slowly descending the stairs.

"Posing as Federal agents when you aren't Federal agents is a pretty serious crime," Blubs informed the two men sternly. Then he leaned against the table, looking at Durland as he refused to look away. "Of course, so is assaulting a police officer. So is burglary and bribery and conspiracy and obstruction of justice. So maybe we can call it even."

Durland suddenly perked up. "You mean it, Blubs?" he asked excitedly.

"I hope we go into that party so I can throw those dollar bills back in that bald bastard's face," Blubs said. He clutched Durland's hand and kissed him gently on the forehead.

"About time we do something right," he told Ford. "We're in."

* * *

Toby Determined was furious. He had run another story in the Gravity Falls _Gossiper_ which nobody cared about, nobody read, even though he had quoted some of the documents which into his possession. Any time he said or wrote anything, people treated him like he just wanted attention.

At one extremity, he even called Shaundra Jimenez, explaining what happened and trying, for the .

"Do you really think I'd break into a building and commit a crime against myself just to get attention?" he asked. "How about the third break-in when I was in prison? Somebody tried to frame me and they couldn't make it stick! Now it's time to get back at them."

"Toby," Shaundra sighed. "Look, I'd like to help you out, but we're not really in the score-settling business. If you have a real story, it will come out. And Toby, please don't call me again or I'll take out a restraining order." She hung up.

Toby even tried posting things on his blog, but both of his followers were only interested in the photos of his old-timey Pioneer Days outfits, saying that he looked "tres lame" and "super-weak." Toby couldn't win anywhere.

So he was wallowing in self-pity again when he received a phone call.

"Toby Determined, Gravity Falls _Gossiper_ ," he whined into the receiver.

"Hi Toby, this is Candy Chiu," said the voice on the other end. "I am pretty sure we've met."

"Yes, your dad is the publisher Bob Chiu, right?"

"Just so! Now listen Toby, some of my dad's friends are in the newspaper business, and they're interested in the stories you've been running about the Northwests and the break-ins at the Gravity Falls Museum of History. Dipper and Mabel Pines are trying to uncover some last minute information before we send it. Do I have permission to quote your work in their story?"

Toby perked up instantly. His mind raced at the thought of his name, so long relegated to the tiniest scraps of self-printed nonsense, streaming out to readers across the country, even the world. He stood up and pumped his fist, doing a jig on his chair.

"You're darn right you do! Just let me know when they run their story."

"Okay, Toby. Thanks! This will be a big help."

Candy hung up and Toby sunk into his chair, vindicated. Finally, things were coming up his way.

* * *

In the Shack's living room, the Mystery Team sat around, with varying degrees of interest and reluctance, as Isabel Mercer announced:

"And now, everyone, fresh from Piedmont, California in a dress she made herself from random scraps of fabric my mom had laying around the store, Mabel Pines!"

And Mabel entered the room with a mixture of shyness and pride, doing a twirl to show off her outfit. It was a party dress in demure cameo pink - a far cry from Mabel's preferred, screaming hot pinks - with two shoulder straps tied in a bow behind her back, showing off a little skin.

"That looks great, dude," Soos said.

"Very stylish, Mabes," Wendy agreed.

"Nice look, Pumpkin," Stan added.

"Aww, thanks," Mabel said, taking in the praise. "Of course, I couldn't have done it without the world's next great fashion designer, Isabel Mercer!" She rushed over and embraced her friend as the crowd applauded.

"Nor is it complete," she said, holding up a finger to shush the applause. Then she gestured, and Charlie came in - wearing a frumpy, ill-fitting tuxedo that made him look like a kid wearing his dad's outfit - with a small box. He made a show of presenting her with the box, taking out the shooting star pin. Mabel pantomimed surprise, and he pinned it regally on her shoulder, to more applause. He bowed and scraped as she clasped her hands together in glee, curtsying to the crowd.

"This is awesome, Mabel," Wendy said. "At least one of us will look nice for the party tomorrow."

"Hey, we offered to make you a dress," Mabel insisted, "but you didn't want one."

"We've been over that, Mabel. Me and fancy outfits aren't exactly chill. Besides, Graham said we're not expected to dress up."

"Oh phooey, Wen," Mabel pouted. "What good is attending a party if you're not going to look like a million dollars?"

"I'll settle for a $40 blazer," she laughed, messing with Mabel's hair.

"Anyway, we all know we have a big day tomorrow," Mabel said. "Thanks everyone for helping us out." She nodded, and Soos got up. Stan folded his arms, suspicious of what was happening.

"This investigation means a lot to me and Dipper, and we've all been through a lot. Some of it's been strange, some of it's been scary, but most of all it's still been fun!"

Charlie sat down on the couch next to Stan. "Easy to say for someone who WASN'T electrocuted," he murmured to Stan, who nodded.

"Whatever happens tomorrow, we deserve to send everything out on a high note."

"Uh oh," Stan uttered.

"Yes, it's time again for a reunion of everyone's favorite Gravity Falls band...LOVE PATROL ALPHA!"

And Soos wheeled out the karaoke machine, to applause and befuddlement.

"Oh no, honey, I already sang with you guys once this summer!" Stan said. "Unless we're attacked by zombies again, it ain't gonna happen a second time."

Dipper stood up. "Don't worry, Sis, I'll at least give you back up." Wendy clapped excitedly as he rushed up to join his sister.

"All right, Mr. Paranoid and the Heartbreaker, America's favorite twin duo. Featuring special guest performer, Charlie "Mr. History" Huston."

"What?" Charlie perked up, suddenly horrified. "Mabel..."

"Get your butt up there, kiddo," Stan said, pushing him off the couch. "You're spending time with Mabel, you're gonna sing with her."

"Jesus," Charlie muttered in embarrassment, rushing to the front as Mabel grabbed the microphone and Soos cranked up the music.

"And to mark the first performance of Love Patrol Alpha, Junior Edition, we're going to sing everyone's favorite &ndra single, from her darker and edgier adult album, 'Cool.'"

An echoing electronic guitar riff pierced the air before building to a crescendo. Mabel led off with the first verse:

 _"It's Friday night_

 _"You pick me up at midnight_

 _"Not too late to dance_

 _"Too late to escape your trance_

 _"No matter what I feel_

 _"We both know this real_

 _"Your love is out of sight_

 _"Even if it doesn't always feel right."_

"Hit it, Dipper," Mabel said. Her brother choked out the hook:

 _"I should tell you now to go away_

 _"But then I think you need to stay_

 _"Why does everything have to be this way?"_

Mabel slugged Charlie on the shoulder as the chorus ramped up. "Come on, sing it like you sing in your office!" she implored him. Charlie shot her an angry glance, then started in with the most hideously off-key, atonal voice anyone had ever heard:

 _"You've got your slicked-back hair and your movie star face_

 _"And I've got a top-notch skirt and a dress made from lace_

 _"And our words and feelings blow all over the place_

 _"But no matter what, we'll be cool._

 _"No matter what, we'll be cool."_

After her boys winced through their parts, Mabel agreed to sing the other verses herself. They all sang the two repetitions of the chorus together, growing more confident and engaged (if not more tuneful) as they went. On the last repetition of "We'll be cool," Mabel, Dipper and Charlie struck assorted silly posed until the music faded out, then collapsed in laughter, as their audience applauded.

"How was that?" Mabel said.

"Horrible," Stan said, though he smiled as he said it.

"Yes, but we were horrible _together_ ," Mabel insisted, pressing Dipper and Charlie close. "And that makes it fun."

Thus warmed up, the karaoke party gained its own weird momentum, everyone suddenly finding the courage to embarrass themselves. Mabel sang a couple more &ndra hits, while Dipper was goaded into chirping out "Disco Girl." Isabel opted for "Can't Fight the Moonlight," even though the boys professed to hate it. Charlie coughed a couple verses of a Tears for Fears song, changing some of the lyrics to fit their situation:

 _"Politician Preston with your non-ideals_

 _"Have you no idea of how Gravity Falls feels?"_

Even Wendy sang part of a John Cougar Mellencamp song that she occasionally belted out in the car or in her cups, but never in front of anyone before. Then Stan declared everyone heartily tired of the experience and got up for bed.

"We've got a big day ahead of us, like Mabel said," he announced. "Listen, kids...I trust all of you. You're all smart and tough and resourceful and all of that. But seriously, don't do anything stupid. Don't put yourself in danger. No mystery or investigation is worth getting hurt or killed over. I mean it."

"But if you do run into any problems, we'll have your back," Ford said. "You can depend on it."

"Thanks, Grunkles!" Mabel said, hugging both of them at once.

"You look beautiful tonight, Pumpkin," Stan said, looking fondly at his niece. Then he summoned Dipper over and gave him a bear hug, too.

They watched the kids go their separate ways. Charlie gave Mabel a deep, grateful hug and whispered something in her ear, then parted for the evening. Mabel chatted briefly with Isabel after he left.

"Hey Wendy," Dipper said as his lumberjack friend prepared to leave.

"What's up?" Wendy said. "Can't believe you finally had the courage to sing BABBA in front of everyone."

"Well, to be fair, Charlie set the bar pretty low," Dipper said, and they both laughed before staring awkwardly past each other.

"Um...good luck tomorrow," Dipper said.

"No sweat, man," Wendy said. "Just sad you can't be there, but at least I know you've got our backs."

"I'll do my best," he assured her weakly. Wendy turned to go again, then stopped herself. She sighed audibly, fumbling for the words, then choked out.

"Hey Dipper, if we make it out alive...maybe we can talk then, okay."

Dipper just nodded as she walked out the door, cursing herself for not having the courage to say what she wanted.

"Uh-oh, do I hear wedding bells?" Mabel teased as Isabel laughed.

"Sheesh, Mabel," he said, blushing furiously. "The only thing I hear right now is Charlie's awful shriek of a voice," he said. "Can't believe you'd fall for someone without any musical talent."

"Hey, he sounds really good in the office," Mabel insisted. "This is his first time in public. In fact, I'd his first step to becoming this generation's Lin-Manuel Miranda."

"Pretty sure Lin-Manuel Miranda is this generation's Lin-Manuel Miranda," Dipper insisted.

As the kids continued to banter, Stan and Ford watched them.

"You really think the kids are up for this, Ford?" Stan asked.

"They've been through a lot worse," Ford said. "I trust them. And besides, if they run into trouble we'll be there to back them up."

This mollified Stan a little, but another sad thought struck. "Well, as long as they have us, huh? Maybe they're getting to the age where they don't need their Grunkles, though."

"Well, that's okay," Ford assured him. "I mean, they have to grow up eventually."

"Yeah, but I just wish we didn't have to grow old at the same time," Stan admitted. "These kids have given me the best years of my life, and I hope this cockamamie heist isn't the last adventure we'll have with them."

"It won't be. And no matter what happens tomorrow, there's still another month-and-a-half of summer." Ford smiled gently at his twin and went up the stairs.

Stan stared after him, wondering how a guy who spent three decades in a wormhole could be self-assured. But he was right. It wasn't a bad thing that Dipper and Mabel could look after each other, or even themselves individually. It wasn't even bad, necessarily, that they were growing old. But he couldn't stand the thought of losing his niece and nephew to college or whatever lay ahead. That seemed scarier than any monster or politician.

But, I'll worry about that another day. Stan punched a code on the vending machine and descended into the basement. He had some last-minute work to do.


	25. Chapter 24: Northwest Mansion I

_Author's note: we've finally reached the big night! The party will probably take a few chapters to unspool, so get comfortable - hope you don't mind a leisurely climax. Thanks again to all my readers and reviewers, you are all awesome!_

 **July 14th, 2018**

 **6:55 pm**

Wendy had to admit that if nothing else, the Northwests could throw a party. When she and Graham arrived, just before the party formally opened, the wait staff and caterers were putting their finishing touches on the entrance - a large champagne fountain had been installed in the center of the room, with large red-white-and-blue crepe streamers hanging from the rafters and a navy blue banner with the Northwest family seal embossed in gold. There were seemingly dozens of servants bustling about, providing last-minute touches to the walls and shelves and everywhere there might be a speck of dust or hint or dirt. A security guard dressed in black stood watching everyone enter, and an older man with wavy gray hair acted as host.

"Let's see...Graham Maxwell Rafferty and Gwendolyn Blerbe Corduroy from Gravity Falls _Student Inquirer_ ," the host said, consulting a large guestbook. "You are indeed both on the list. Pierre will show you in."

Sure enough, an improbably tall giraffe of a butler with a faint French accent escorted them into the foyer.

"Mr. Northwest will see you both as soon as the party officially opens and gives his formal greeting," the butler said. "There will be a reception in the ballroom to begin, a three-course dinner in the dining room and then a party with light music until 11. You may stay as long as you wish."

"Wow! This is a lot for two student reporters, huh Wen?" Graham said, fingering his notepad. He sported a brown-and-yellow flannel shirt and a red tie which even Wendy thought looked hideous.

"I guess so," Wendy muttered, tugging at the camera strap caught in the neck of her coal-gray blazer. "Do you want me to start taking pictures now?" she asked Graham.

Pierre placed a hand on her camera. "Um, Mr. Northwest would prefer no pictures until the event begins," he instructed. "You will be allowed no more than ten pictures of the party and three with Mr. Northwest. Your interview will of course be restricted to twenty minutes with the question Mr. Rafferty and Mr. Northwest agreed to beforehand. "

"Wait, you're restricting our number of pictures?" Wendy asked. "I mean, I understand the time limit, but what's the harm of taking some snaps?"

"These are our limits to all interviewers," Pierre insisted with cold cordiality. "I will trust you will follow these instructions, or we will revoke your access. Provided that, enjoy the party! Now if you will excuse me, I must check on the kitchen staff." And away he came off, dodging a cart full of hors d'oeuvres being wheeled out to the ballroom.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I didn't mention the picture limit," Graham apologized. "That and the time restrictions were the only way he'd give us any access. Still, it's pretty cool that a political candidate would let some college kids interview him."

"I mean, it's good press," Wendy said, watching two members of the band walk past. "His poll numbers have been lowest among the 18-30 crowd, so why not let us talk to him?"

Graham stared at her incredulously. She scowled, angry that he was already slipping back into condescension mode.

"What? I looked it up," she said, shrugging. Then with increased annoyance: "There's a thing called the Internet, you know."

Wendy, of course, hadn't told Graham that she had an interest beyond lobbing a few softball questions Preston's way and snapping some fluffy pictures. She would have to see how much freedom of action she would have - if she could slip away while Graham interviewed the big cheese himself. Or at least take a look around the study, in case his study contained something incriminating.

For now, though, her eyes cased out as much of the mansion as she could see - the balcony, the paintings and streamers, the rooms all appearing where Soos indicated they would be. This was going to be a long, difficult night; she thought all the things that could go wrong, .

She texted Dipper: WE'RE IN. WILL TEXT YOU WHEN DONE

"I'm so glad you could be here with me," Graham said, pulling her close. Wendy violently shrugged him off.

"Dude, what part of 'we're not dating anymore' don't you get?" she growled. Already she was regretting this whole arrangement, wishing the evening would end.

"You say that Wen, but look where we are," he insisted. "What could be more awesome than this? A night at a fancy party...all this food and rich people and atmosphere...It's going to be an amazing night. Who knows what will happen?"

Wendy's face crinkled in annoyance. "If you think this night is going to end with us back together, I know that won't happen," she insisted. "We're here to do a job - we're helping each other out, that's it. God, at least try to be cool for one night! If you can."

"Sorry," Graham simpered. Then he murmured, more to himself than her: "Who knows though, anything is possible!"

Wendy couldn't gainsay him that - though not what he seemed to imply. Right now, she mostly thought about how much she'd rather be here with her favorite twins...

* * *

"All right, Wendy's in," Dipper said, reading his phone. He turned down the mouthpiece on his headset. "Mabel, are you guys ready?"

"Ready for a party? Always!" came the response.

"Okay Mabel," Ford interjected. "You can hear us okay?"

"Crystal clear!"

"Okay, could you try your ring for us?" Mabel obliged, and a video of Charlie fidgeting with his tie flashed onto their screen.

"How's that?" she asked. "Can you see Charlie's shaving cuts or smell his cheap cologne?"

"Geez Mabel," Charlie complained. "I told you it's aftershave..."

"The picture quality isn't _that_ good," Dipper joked. "But it's clear enough for our purposes."

Mabel turned the ring towards her face, smiling and waving. "Hey there, Van Team! Are you guys ready to be jealous?"

"We're ready to get underway," Ford said impatiently. "The gates will be opening to guests in two minutes. See if you can find a way upstairs and we'll try and see if there's a lock or something we can get open without making a scene. Hopefully it will be something easy that you can jimmy open yourself, but I'm not counting on it."

"Remember what I said, kids," Stan interjected. "Don't do anything stupid. If you get into trouble, text or signal code red like we told you. If you need to tap Morse into the receiver, just do that. Don't bother with SOS, just S!"

"Dot-dot-dot," Mabel imitated. "Got it."

"Okay, remember everything we went over guys," Dipper said. "I have faith in you, sis."

"Thanks, Dip!" Mabel said, mimicking a smooch.

"Charlie, take care of my sister, okay?" Dipper asked her date.

"You got it, man," Charlie gave a thumbs up.

"All right, good luck everyone," Stan said. "And Mabel?"

"Yeah, Grunkle Stan?"

"You look beautiful."

"Thanks!" she gushed. "And why can't _you_ say nice things like that to me?" she demanded, presumably to Charlie. His response was garbled, and Mabel laughed over him anyway.

"Okay, Mystery Sis out!" And they went silent.

Dipper felt a stab of fear, worrying about all the things that could go wrong in the Mansion. Now, at the last moment, he started regretting that he wouldn't be joining her inside. But he looked at his Grunkles, and realized that they could still help her. If she needed it. And Dipper wasn't sure that she would.

At that moment, Soos opened the door to the van. "Dudes, guess who brought everyone subs from Fat Pete's? This guy! Which one of you likes the turkey with onions and vinaigrette again?"

Ford facepalmed and Stan sighed audibly. Dipper just glared at the handyman, who shrugged.

"Sorry, I figured it would be a long night and that you'd want something to eat."

"Shut the door, Soos," Stan said, slipping off his headset and reaching for a sandwich. "So much for stealth."

* * *

Wendy and Graham sat on a small bench watching as the guests arrived. Wendy strained her head to see if she recognized anyone, but she didn't - mostly older and middle-aged folks in their finest outfits, instantly drawn into themselves and not taking any notice of the two impatient young adults nearby. She thought she spotted Pacifica in a lavender dress, with a red-haired boy on her arm, but she was swept away.

Then she saw a couple that she recognized very well, and a smile hit her face instantly.

Mabel looked beautiful as she always did, her hair up slightly, wearing the same pink dress she'd shown off the night before, along with her shooting star pin and ring and a pearl necklace. Charlie looked surprisingly handsome, hair freshly cut, wearing a dark-blue sport coat rather than the awkward tuxedo from the Shack party, though Wendy couldn't help noticing little nicks from his razor blade on his chin and neck.

Wendy stood up and walked over to them. Mabel was chuckling at an older woman's joke, then spotted Wendy and instantly pulled herself away.

"Wendy, you're here!" Mabel yelped. "You look very professional."

"Of course I'm here!" Wendy laughed. "And thanks, I guess. You look amazing, though!"

"Oh, this old thing!" Mabel said. "You saw it last night!"

"Yeah, but now you're all gussied up and...wow! You're a very beautiful young woman, you know!"

"Hey, I'm not as beautiful as you, Wen-Wen," she said, ribbing her friend. She turned to Charlie again, who stood by smiling awkwardly.

"And everyone is complementing me tonight except you! What is wrong with you?"

"Mabel, I told you in the car you're a very pretty girl..." He looked pitiful.

"Pssh, everyone knows that!" she said, grabbing his hand when she caught his forlorn expression. "I'm just teasing, Charlie. Sorry."

"You don't look so bad either, dude," Wendy offered him a lifeline. "You clean up nicely."

"That what I've been saying," Mabel said, stroking her beau's shoulder. Charlie just nodded appreciatively and put his arm around Mabel.

"Well, good luck with everything tonight Wendy," he said. "If anyone can handle a situation like this, it's you."

"Thanks, man," she said. "But I've seen the two of you do some badass stuff, too. I mean, a couple weeks ago you were being electrocuted by a bald bastard and here you are."

"Don't forget who's wearing the wire!" Mabel chimed in.

"Yeah, maybe you want to be a little discreet about that?" Charlie said anxiously.

"Sorry, discreet is my middle name," Mabel said, zipping her lips. Then her head swiveled around.

"Ooh, mini quiches! Talk later!" She rushed off, and Charlie followed after.

Wendy shook her head, smiling. Good luck Charlie, she thought.

"Those your friends," Graham said into her ear.

"Ahh! Dude, don't do that!"

"Sorry, you could have at least introduced me."

Wendy just shot him a glare. Charlie backed off, then bristled with surprise as they saw Preston Northwest himself standing before them.

"Ah, and these are the student journalists!" he said, offering them his hand. He looked a lot like Wendy remembered - his hair and mustache a little grayer, but the same smug bastard she knew and loathed. Still, his handshake was firm.

"Mr. Northwest, it's a pleasure," Graham toadied.

"Delighted, I'm sure," Preston agreed. "And Ms. Corduroy, I believe we've met."

"Yep," she said, reluctantly accepting a handshake.

"Well, we're both from Gravity Falls of course." A brief pause; Wendy noticed him wiping his hand off in his coat pocket. "Now, excuse me but I need to start things off. Pierre will show you to my study when I'm ready. It should just be a moment or two."

The foyer was now filled with at least a hundred swells, talking excitedly among themselves. Then a loud clapping sound, and everyone turned to see Pierre.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Northwest!" And they applauded as Preston walked to the front of the room with Priscilla on his arm.

"Welcome everyone, to my home!" he said. "Delighted that you could all join us for this festive occasion. Now, the main purpose of tonight is fundraising, but that doesn't mean we can't have fun, too. All work and no play, as they say."

Wendy spotted the girl in the lavender dress again - it was definitely Pacifica, standing at the front of the crowd with the boy on her arm, leading the applause for her father.

"Thank you for your friendship and support," Preston continued with as much benevolence as he could muster. "This night, indeed my campaign, wouldn't be possible without all of you. And it's for you, and all the good people of Oregon, for whom I'm running. Why would I need to run for Congress when I already have everything?"

Canned, forced laughter - the kind only bad jokes could produce and only money could buy. Preston, Wendy thought, looked like every other pompous, rich blowhard who'd ever run for political office, 200 pounds of ego and swagger bounding out of an overpriced suit - so much for change. And Priscilla, made-up and Botoxed to oblivion, looked like a melting wax doll propping herself up against her husband's chest.

Wendy just crossed her arms and leaned back, waiting for the windbag to finish. As she scowled, she saw someone in the crowd she recognized, but couldn't place. It was a blip in her peripheral vision, enough to make her pulse quicken, but by the time she looked back they were gone.

"Anyway, you've heard enough from me. Thanks again, and Pierre will show you into the ballroom for our reception."

Polite applause. Preston and Priscilla went forward and received a hug from their daughter, whom he kissed on the cheek. Then the couple went upstairs, with Pierre and other wait staff directing the crowd into the ballroom. After watching everyone file past, Wendy saw the butler again come up to them.

"Sir and Madame, Mr. Northwest will receive you upstairs in a moment. Come right this way."

"Oh my God, this is it," Graham burbled. Wendy rolled her eyes and followed dutifully, taking note of everything upstairs. She pulled away for just a minute at the top of the stairs, thought she heard angry whispers. Then she crept down the hallway, seeing that the Northwests' bedroom door was just cracked open.

"I told you I don't want _**that man**_ anywhere near here!" Priscilla hissed. "You keep your minions and your goons far away from my home and especially my daughter!"

"That's no way to talk about one of my most trusted employees," Preston said. "Besides, we may need him tonight. It sounds like we have some unexpected visitors here, and we need all the help we can get."

"Preston, you told me if you ran for office, no more lies, no more secrets. Well then, what do we need people causing trouble for? I know you think the world is populated with lowing idiots, but when you act so reckless _someone'_ s going to notice."

"I don't think people are stupid, Priscilla, amazing as that might seem to you. I just don't think they care about this kind of thing longer than your average Twitter status..."

Wendy was so engrossed in this conversation that she almost screamed when Pierre soundlessly touched her shoulder, guiding her down the hallway towards Preston's study. He led her to a couch beside Graham, who crossed his legs finicky-like and scribbled some notes. They took in the room, a cavernous library with paintings of all the Northwests around the walls, a fireplace in the middle.

"We'll see how he wants to handle the pictures first," Graham assured her. "Maybe we can take a few basic portrait photographs - of course, I expect you to make them more than basic. Do you have any ideas?"

"Well, only a couple of obvious ones," Wendy said. "Maybe a low angle shot of him with Nathaniel Northwest in the background." _A fraud begetting a fraud_ , she thought. "I don't know about the lighting in here, but I guess we can always try to fix something in PhotoShop later."

After a minute, the door swung open. They both stood up as Preston entered.

"Sorry to keep you both waiting," he said. "My wife isn't feeling well, so she's going to lay down and join us for the reception later. Now, we have twenty minutes worth of question, you two, and I'm sure you have some snappers. Fire away."

* * *

Mabel, naturally, was torn. On the one hand, she loved a big party, especially one as swank as this. She loved flitting about engaging random people in conversations about fashion or cars or the opera or whatever things rich people talked about. On the other hand, her mission was always in her mind, and she feared that she couldn't enjoy herself too much. Which was better than Charlie, who didn't seem to be enjoying himself at all.

"Charlie, while we're here we might as well try to have fun," she chided him as he sipped at a glass of punch.

"I told you, I'm not great at these sort of social situations," Charlie murmured into his punch.

"Oh fooey," Mabel said. "Everybody can have fun anywhere if they only put their mind to it."

Charlie wanted to argue, but he saw Mabel's eyes lit up with anticipation and a hint of disappointment.

"Besides, we're going to spend most of tonight doing mystery stuff," she pleaded. "At least give me one dance first."

Charlie nodded, then looked around. No one else seemed to be dancing, and the band was playing a very mellow Cole Porter tune.

"But...we'd be the only ones dancing," he muttered.

"Well, maybe we can start something then!" Mabel said. "Like, I'm not expecting you to be Kevin Bacon in _Footloose_ or anything. Just hold me close and let's have fun together."

She thrust out her hand dramatically, and Charlie sighed and grabbed it. They started swaying back and forth together as the music played on, gently rocking on the floor. Both of them noticed others in the audience were watching them dance, with varying degrees of interest and amusement. This made Mabel excited, and Charlie testy.

"There, this isn't so hard," Mabel cooed in his ear, holding him close.

"It's...not unpleasant," Charlie admitted. "Better than I thought it would be."

Mabel suddenly grew upset. "What does that mean?" she demanded.

Charlie's face grew beat red. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he assured her, suddenly flustered. Mabel put her hands around his hips and guided him in a slow step.

"You're so awkward, you just need to relax," Mabel told him. "You wouldn't ever know that you studied theater."

"Acting in plays doesn't mean you have to dance," Charlie said.

"Right, right, you were Sir Thomas More," Mabel laughed. "I assume he would have burned people at the stake for dancing too hard."

"Well, that and..." He struggled to spit out the words. Then he whispered: "This is the first time I've ever danced with a girl."

Mabel's face lit up at this revelation, feeling her heart flutter. Somehow, as much as she liked Charlie, as awkward and lonely as he sometimes it seen, she hadn't until now fully grasped what _she_ might mean to **him**. That this night, if nothing else, could be as special to him as it would be for her.

"You wouldn't ever know it," she assured him, stroking his brow gently. They slowed to a crawl as the music dropped out.

They kissed, for the second time, and it was just as thrilling and magical as the first. Several onlookers applauded and cheered, but no one and nothing mattered right then except each other.


	26. Chapter 25 Northwest Mansion II

**July 14th, 2018**

 **7:30 pm**

Wendy knelt on the floor of Preston Northwest's study, trying to focus the zoom just right. "Hold still, Mr. Northwest," she said, making sure that she framed the picture of him looking noble and Senatorial into the distance just right, with the picture of Preston Northwest just looming over him. She clicked the shutter.

"Perfect!" she said, looking at the preview on her lens.

The interview itself had been relatively painless, if dull and unrevelatory. Graham, of course, lobbed Preston the most boring of softball questions, which received the most obvious bloop-singles of answers. To wit:

Sample Q: How will you work for the youth of Oregon?

Sample A: It's important that our next generation engages in politics and policy debates, so I'm working hard to analyze and understand their concerns. I know from talking to my daughter that too many children and teens think politics don't matter to them, which is a shame. At heart, I think theirs aren't much different than anyone else's - a freer, happier, more successful future.

Translation, filtered through Wendy's BS detector: I don't know anything about kids and I don't really give a damn, either. They're stupid and they don't vote and they don't have money and so who cares what they think? Direct your stupid question to Pacifica.

Whenever Graham and Preston seemed especially engrossed in their scripted exchanges, Wendy tried edging around the study, looking for anything that might be of use. Preston had a large but rather unremarkable collection of books - some works of "dad history" that you'd find at the Barnes and Noble, memoirs of successful businessmen, paper-thin books on current affairs, destined for anachronism six months after publication, and occasionally doorstop novels long on length and short on substance. Not that Wendy was intellectual herself, exactly, but she recognized him as someone who would display books purely for the status they represented rather than the stories or ideas inside.

Someone, perhaps, like Graham, who seemed more apt to namedrop books he'd read than to actual digest or discuss them. No longer they were getting along so well, she rued, yukking it up like two old frat buddies.

She did see, given pride of place on a big shelf, _Nathaniel Northwest: Founding Father of Gravity Falls_ , which Ford had assured her was full of lies and aggrandizing crap.

In her first sweep of the room she was disappointed. She expected a secret passageway, a cipher clue or pictograph, an incriminating book or damning document jutting out from the shelf or left carelessly laying on a desk. No luck, though, and she wished she had Dipper's sharp eye for clues, or Mabel's penchant for random revelations through the Power of Silliness. There had to be something that was missing...

"Ah, you're admiring my collection," Preston said, breaking into her thoughts. "I don't read _that_ much, but I try keeping on top of the important reads." He mechanically walked over and grabbed The Book off the shelf. "Of course, if you want to really know my family's history, you should read the Stevenson book." He leafed through it and showed Graham and Wendy the frontispiece, a woodcut portrait of the Northwests.

"A very good historian, writes lots of best-selling works on the Civil War and World War II and such popular topics. Very honored that he'd take time to write about our family. You might even see him here tonight," he said, smiling. "He's helping write my campaign memoir," he added.

"Very interesting," Graham uttered, ever the studious, awestruck sycophant. Wendy registered that this meant he would write the whole thing, and Preston would probably never even read it.

"Yes, everything you _need_ to know about about the Northwest Family, about Gravity Falls, you'd find here." Wendy caught the strange emphasis on "need." She couldn't help wondering if he was on to her, if this was a sick, subtle taunt. After the conversation between him and his wife she'd overheard earlier in the evening, she wouldn't put it past him.

Now that she was finished taking the pictures (Graham, naturally, had insisted that he and Preston take a photograph together), she began packing up her camera. "Do you want to take a look at these before we go?"

"That won't be necessary," Preston said with a wave of his hand. "I trust you kids. You asked very illuminating questions, I'm sure your article will be a smashing success."

"Thanks," Wendy muttered. All those restrictions on how many photographs she could take - and he didn't even want to check them? Something was up.

She didn't see Preston and Graham sharing a conspiratorial glance while she closed her camera bag.

"Ms. Corduroy, is there anything _you_ would like to ask me?" Preston asked. The question came as a surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you haven't said much all night," he said, resting the book on his desk. "I figured that you were engrossed in your work, but...maybe you have something you want to say."

Wendy bristled; now she was definitely on guard.

"I don't know what you mean," Wendy insisted. She wasn't great at playing dumb. "Graham's the interviewer, not me! I'm just taking the pictures."

"Of course," Preston said, nodding. "You know, I seem to remember you're friends with Dipper Pines. That kid came awful close to discovering some...terrible rumors about my family history a few years ago."

"If he did, he didn't tell _me_ about it," Wendy lied. She felt herself starting to sweat, wishing that she had brought her hatchet with her.

"That's good," Preston affirmed, leaning over his desk and turning his back to her. A long pause as if he was thinking of the right words. Then he turned back towards her with a menacing smile.

"Of course, I have a funny feeling that he's been looking for some other rumors lately. Have you been?"

"Mr. Northwest," she said, struggling to retain the courtesy the situation seemed to require. "I don't know what you're talking about. Dipper's been investigating, you know, his usual supernatural stuff. He doesn't clue me in on everything he does."

"I find that hard to believe," Preston said. "After all, Graham here told me that you two are awfully close this summer..."

"Graham?" she snapped, rounding on her ex. "What the hell are you doing talking about me to other people?"

Graham shrugged with a guilty smirk. Wendy felt ice water in her veins, a chill in her heart. Something was dreadfully wrong.

"And knowing Dipper as I do, he's likely to share anything he's found with someone he trusts," Preston continued, ignoring her outburst. "Would it be wrong to assume he trusts you?"

Wendy nodded. "He trusts me with his life," she said truthfully, wishing he was here with her right now.

"I thought so," Preston said, cupping his chin thoughtfully. "Graham, thanks for your help, but I can take it from here."

Before Wendy could move, he pushed a button and two security guards in blue uniforms entered the study from a side room. They grabbed her arms, pinioning her and pushing her down into a chair. Graham walked over to his struggling ex and pulled the camera from her head.

"Graham, what the hell - help me!" she demanded, trying to break free.

"Sorry, Wendy," he said, reviewing the pictures she'd taken. "I've given you several months of my life, and what did you give me in return? Ignoring my calls, blowing off our dates, treating me like the world's biggest asshole, all because I have dreams bigger than our podunk town.

"Graham, I'm sorry," she said, still struggling as the guards tried to cuff her hands behind the chair. "I could have been a better girlfriend, I know, but..." Her right leg flew out and kicked one of the guards in the mid-section. The other delivered a quick blow to her neck, knocking her unconscious.

"Thanks, Mr. Northwest," Graham said. "My story will go great with these pictures."

"Delighted to help, my boy," Preston said, pumping his hand with a politician's exaggerated gratitude. "I'll be sure to run your article on my website and give you all the media attention I can buy. You'll go far in this state if I have anything to say about it."

Graham nodded, then looked at Wendy, sprawled in the chair. Long after it might do any good, a pang of regret stabbed through his chest.

"You aren't going to hurt her, are you?" he asked meekly.

Preston just smiled. "Go enjoy yourself," he insisted. "We're going to be serving dinner in about fifteen minutes. Pierre will show you to your seat."

Then the door to the study opened, and Pierre gestured for the student to follow him. He took one last glance back at Wendy, then stepped out into the hallway.

Once the guards had restrained Wendy, Preston gestured for them to leave. They went back in the side door and closed it, leaving the half-conscious girl sitting and groaning in the center of the study.

As if oblivious, Preston sat down at his desk and poured himself a brandy, taking a long, satisfied sip. He had won, he thought, no reason to rush things. He'd take care of the Corduroy girl all in good time.

* * *

It was Charlie, hovering by the champagne fountain in the foyer, who noticed Graham and Pierre leaving the study. He pointed it out to Mabel, who was busy scarfing a piece of shrimp.

"Look at that," he said. "Isn't that where Soos said that the study was?"

"Yeah," Mabel realized, spitting out the shrimp's tail to a waiter's disapproving glare. "And that's Wendy's boyfriend - but no Wendy!" Her Mabel sense immediately detected trouble.

"We have to save her!" she said, grabbing Charlie's wrist and starting towards the staircase.

"Mabel, stop!" Charlie barked, raising his voice and pulling back for the first time all night. He grabbed her shoulders and held her face close to his to emphasize his seriousness.

"If Wendy's in trouble, we have to be smart about this," he said, trying to keep her calm. "Look at that guy up there - we can't just rush past him. And if he's out there, then imagine who else is upstairs waiting for us?"

Mabel craned her head and saw Pierre lurking around the balcony, keeping an eye on everything below him. She nodded at Charlie. If she had her grappling hook, she might think differently, but there was no way she'd been able to smug it in her dress, let alone past security.

"He's right, Mabel," Dipper's voice crackled in her ear. "You have to think of a distraction so you can get upstairs."

"A distraction?" Mabel said aloud. She could think of a million weird and wild ways to draw attention to herself...but she was the one with the camera and the earbud, not Charlie. But what could _he_ do to distract anyone? Rattle off a billion boring facts about the Civil War?

The answer was remarkably close, as Charlie spotted a gray-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses and a tuxedo vest chatting with two dignitaries in the center of the room. Others started gathering around her.

"My God, that's Ambrose Stevenson," he muttered.

"Who?" Mabel asked.

"That's the author of Nathaniel Northwest's biography," Dipper informed her. "Remember that book Ford told us was garbage?"

"I didn't use those precise words," Ford interjected, "but yes, it's clearly written to serve the Northwest family's agenda."

"Right, it's crap," Stan said. "What does _that_ matter?"

Charlie put down his glass, staring at Stevenson with a mix of nervousness and contempt.

"I've got this, Mabel," he assured her, dramatically fidgeting with his tie. "Just wait until everyone's properly distracted."

Before he could ask any questions, he bolted across the room, pushing his way towards the historian.

"Hi, are you Ambrose Stevenson?" Charlie asked. The historian looked at him with a proud benevolence, thrusting out his hand.

"Yes, young man," he said. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"I am Charles Huston of the Gravity Falls Museum of History," he announced. "You might remember our correspondence about the Quentin Trembly story I wrote for our newsletter last winter."

Stevenson's brow crinkled. "Ah yes, that poppycock," he declaimed haughtily. "It's a fun little local legend, nothing more. Who would really believe that this town's founder was such a silly man? Let alone that someone would be able to hide such a baffling story for so many years."

They laughed indulgently, putting the young man out. Mabel gestured with impatience and bafflement, but Charlie shot her an "okay" signal with his fingers.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised at what history can be hidden if people put their mind to it," Charlie interjected. "Sometimes a family wants their history airbrushed, sometimes a town or city would like to forget something unpleasant. And sometimes a hack writer doesn't care to look beyond the obvious sources."

Stevenson rounded on him, face flushed with fury. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, warming to his topic and suddenly growing more confident, more forceful than Mabel had ever seen him before. Suddenly the nebbish disappeared and was replaced, to Mabel's surprise and delight, with someone else altogether.

"I know some historians spend their whole careers buried in archives, looking through dusty archives at papers and files and letters, sifting for hidden facts and truths. It's a hard job, I guess, and it's not very fulfilling. My uncle Jim worked in an historical center in western Pennsylvania, spent thirty years doing research and all he managed to publish were two magazine articles and a couple pieces in the center's newsletter, his work ignored even by academics and his life forgotten by everyone outside his immediate circle. And he was _lucky_!

"On the other hand, there are other historians who will write books about popular topics, rehashing secondary sources that any mildly curious individual with access to a library or a bookstore could discover on their own. Oh look, he says - sorry for the implicit sexism, ladies, but it's usually a he - these people have already done my work for me. Why write a new history of Nazi Germany when William Shirer and Alan Bullock already did my work for me? Why bother digging into Civil War archives when Bruce Caton and Shelby Foote - who aren't great historians themselves, but they're certainly _easy_ to find - are out there waiting to be pilfered?"

Charlie's voice grew louder and more haughty as he went on. Even from across the room, Mabel could see Stevenson's face glowing beet red with each passing implication; she was amazed he hadn't hit her boyfriend yet. More to her surprise, others were starting to hover around, listening to the argument with growing fascination.

"And so this historian writes a piece of garbage that's sloppily written and hastily plagiarized and turns it over to a publisher. Because once upon a time, he had done actual spadework and research and made his reputation for such, but now he's smug and successful and lazy enough that he can just crap out 250 pages of Wikipedia-level tripe and get a six-figure advance on it. When his book comes out, thousands of people will buy it, it will be warmly reviewed by book critics who don't know Robert E. Lee from John Brown, and if he's lucky it's made into a miniseries or a movie featuring assorted out-of-work sitcom actors."

Now people were vocally murmuring, either amused and appalled by the young man with the effrontery to challenge an esteemed, best-selling historian in such a forceful public manner. And, Mabel noticed, he'd even grabbed Pierre's attention.

Stevenson swallowed his rage and tried to laugh off his attacker. "Of course, this is the kind of snobbery I've been dealing with my entire career," he said to one of the ladies he'd been chatting with before. "People think if a book sells it's worthless, and if a scholar isn't lucky enough to succeed he's a God. I don't know if it's jealousy or some misplaced ivory tower attitude towards people who realizes the reading public doesn't care to read monograms about mining practices and the designs of army uniforms or some such, but it's far too frequent and not very becoming."

"But the **best** part," Charlie continued, acting as if he'd never been interrupted, "is when they sell out their integrity to a rich benefactor. Someone who says, hey, you know what? My family's reputation isn't quite as brilliant as I think it should be, so maybe I should hire that guy whose book I keep seeing in the display windows at Books-A-Million to write a heavily idealized version of what they're really like. No matter that at that point, you cease being a historian and merely become a stenographer. Which is sad, but understandable. It's much less profitable being a real historian, after all, than being a whore."

There were loud, anguished murmurs of shock. Charlie and Stevenson's conversation, such as it was, degenerated to shouting and accusations and dread oaths worthy of an Old West alehouse, arms flailing and tempers flaring. Mabel watching with a mixture of amusement and confusion, not sure that what she'd heard Charlie rant about was worth any of this, but it sure was drawing the cognoscenti like flies to stink. She even saw Pierre, who'd been eavesdropping with wry, eagle-eyed amusement, rushing down the stairs to break up the scuffle.

"What was _that_ about?" Dipper asked, hearing snippets of the commotion. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Mabel said. "Charlie just found our way in."

"Whatever works," Stan said. "Now hop to it, pumpkin."

Mabel looked once more at Charlie, heatedly engrossed in his nerd's argument, then rushed up the stairs before Pierre could take notice.


	27. Chapter 26: Northwest Mansion III

**July 14th, 2018**

 **8:00 pm**

It took Wendy a few minutes to fully regain consciousness. She was dimly aware of the pain her neck, that someone, presumably Preston, was still in the room; every once in awhile she'd hear a cough or a tap on a desk or the tinkle of ice against a drinking glass. She also thought of Graham, and how lucky he was that he wasn't with her anymore so she couldn't strangle him to death.

She tried testing out her limbs, only to find that she couldn't move. Her arms, she remembered, had been handcuffed behind her back. Her legs, apparently, had been locked or chained to the chair legs. Now she was completely at the mercy of Preston and his goons. And it was a predicament that she didn't appreciate one bit.

"Well, Ms. Corduroy, I have an appointment downstairs," he said. "Time for dinner. It's unfortunate that you won't be joining us - we're having some exquisite filet of sole and crab legs with a special Northwest creme brule for dessert. But I feel you might need some time to gather your thoughts before our next meeting."

"What do you want with me?" Wendy groaned.

Preston laughed. "You, specifically? Well, you and your friends have certainly gotten closer to some information that I don't want public. But I guess you've already figured that out. But you and I...well, since you're not getting out of here any time soon, we'll have plenty of time."

Despite herself, Wendy fought back a stab of fear. She futilely strained against the handcuffs and restraints on her limbs, shaking the chair back and forth. Preston just watched, amused, and placed his glass on the desk. Then he walked over to her and got uncomfortably close.

"I'm sure you think I'm a monster, and maybe by your lights I am. Of course, I don't think you or your family are anything more than a bunch of uncouth lumberjacks not worth the time or money to eliminate you. But maybe I should be more generous."

To Wendy's disgust, he caught Preston staring closely at her face, like he was looking for something. He even had the effrontery to wipe a strand of hair from her forehead. Then he leaned in and whispered:

 _"You and I have more in common than you think."_

"I don't have **anything** in common with you!" Wendy shouted, suddenly regaining her voice. She thrashed about to no avail, but managed to spit on Preston's suit. Preston looked down and frowned, then brought out a handkerchief and wiped it off.

"Well, we'll have plenty to talk about later." And he tossed the handkerchief at Wendy's feet and turned to leave.

* * *

As Mabel sneaked upstairs she could still hear the commotion between Charlie and that Stevenson guy. She looked around cautiously, then ducked behind a small divide in the wall. Then she signaled her receiver, watching Pierre try to separate her boyfriend and the blowhard.

"All right, guys," she whispered. "I'm at the top of the stairs. Now, did Soos say the room was on the left or the right?"

"On your left as you go up," Dipper said. "Good luck, sis, and be careful."

Mabel nodded and tore herself away from the faux-intellectual scrum below. She paced slowly along the walls, hoping that no one would spot her, or a servant wouldn't dart out of one of the rooms and ask what she was doing. At least she had picked a relatively demure color for her dress, she thought.

"Now, at the end of the hall there should be Preston's study," Dipper continued. Mabel looked at the door, wondering if Wendy was still inside, hoping that she wasn't in any serious trouble. Her only consolation, of course, is that it was Wendy and how she could handle anything...But that thought didn't really help her, as she contemplated breaking in now. But Dipper's voice broke into her thoughts.

"I think Soos said that there were a few small storage rooms first. Bypass those for now. Soos didn't say what the room looked like..."

"It's, like, more of an impression than a door," Soos suddenly broke in. "Look, you'll see the outline of a door but no handle or anything. One of those slidey dealies. There's a machine, looks like a thermostat, where I guess you have to enter some kind of pass code."

Mabel thought she heard voices down the hall and ducked for cover. Her heart raced in her chest; she breathed heavily into the mike.

"Everything all right?" Dipper asked.

"Uh-huh," Mabel affirmed, waiting for the footsteps to recede. She crept down the dimly-lit hall, looking for the "impression" as Soos called it...then she spotted it. The vague outline of a door frame in the wall, painted over with surprising lack of skill to mask its presence. Then she saw the device Soos had mentioned; it did look like a thermostat, but it had a small electronic touch screen on top.

"Looks like a touch screen," Mabel whispered, examining it. She decided to use her video ring and flashed the image to her assistants back in the van. "Six numbers, I guess?"

"That should make it relatively easy," Ford replied. "That should give us...oh, only about a million possibilities."

"Oh, _**only**_ a million," Stan snarled. "What a relief. Good thing we have a week so we could try 'em all out!"

"Guys, let's not overthink this," Dipper interrupted. "Now, what sort of numbers would you enter as a pass code or pin number?"

"Birthdays?" Mabel offered as loudly as she dared.

"Excellent!" Dipper said. "Now, what is Pacifica's birthday? November 1st, 1999 I think she said. Try 11-01-99, Mabel."

Mabel obliged, and the device beeped quietly as she entered the numbers. Then it scrambled and beeped three times, indicating an incorrect entry.

"Okay, that didn't work," Dipper sighed. "I might remember her mom's birthday...Her dad's we can probably look up somewhere." A moment of silence that struck Mabel as endless; she swore she heard a lady's cough somewhere down the hallway.

"Okay...Priscilla Patterson Northwest," Dipper read. "Born October 2nd, 1976. Wow, she's a lot younger than I thought."

Mabel groaned at his mildly sexist comment, but let it pass. She entered 10-02-76 in the machine and it beeped in rejection.

"All right, Preston Nathaniel Auldman Northwest...Born January 6th, 1970." Mabel entered that number,

"Well, that rules out birthdays," Dipper said. "Unless..they had a dog, right?"

"And six ponies!" Mabel declared, much louder than she intended to. Then she tried to dial down her voice. "Dipper, I'm not going to wait around here for that bald meanie to show up and sock me while you try remembering a dog's birthday. You guys think of something! Wendy could be in trouble and I'm more worried about her right now than whatever's in that room."

"Right, right, I'm sorry," Dipper said. "Maybe there's some kind of algorithm or code generator we could use..."

Mabel stopped as she heard a door open. She gasped, watching Preston emerge from his study. He paused for a moment, and Mabel pressed herself flat against the wall, terrified that he'd heard her. Fortunately, after a moment he moved on.

"Mabel, what's that?" Dipper asked.

"You okay, sweetie?" Stan demanded. "Talk to us."

"Mr. Northwest just came out of his study," she thought. Then she gasped. "And Wendy never came out!" she realized.

"Mabel, what do you mean? Is Wendy in trouble?" Dipper's voice took on a tinge of alarm.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," Mabel said. "Guys, I'm sorry, but this stupid door can wait. I'll let you know if we need you."

"Mabel, what are you-?"

And Mabel shut off her transmitter. She waited another moment, watching out of the corner of her eye as Preston and Priscilla locked arms and descended the staircase together. Then she moved.

* * *

"Mabel? Mabel? Oh God, what happened!?" Dipper tossed his headset down.

"Take it easy, kid," Stan suggested. But Dipper started hyperventilating, felt panic rising in his chest. Before either of his Grunkles could stop him, he burst out of the van and into the night.

He imagined Mabel and Wendy both in the clutches of some sinister madman, and here he was sitting around in a van googling number combinations. What kind of brother - and friend - was he if he'd let that happen? He stared at the Northwest mansion, a mile or so from where they were parked, and he prepared to take off.

"Not so fast, kiddo," Stan's voice growled. He grabbed his nephew by the shoulder, restraining him.

"Grunkle Stan, Mabel's in trouble!" he insisted. "And Wendy! We've got to help them."

"We **are** helping them," Stan insisted, though his arm trembled with anxiety and rage. The thought of his niece in danger didn't do him much good, either, no matter what words he offered Dipper.

"No we aren't!" Dipper shouted. "We're just sitting here trying to toggle numbers...And they're in there risking their lives for us..." He breathed heavily, in the midst of a deep panic attack.

"Dipper, we can't do anything rash or impulsive," Ford said. "We have a contingency plan in place in case there's an emergency. Besides, think about what Mabel said. Her _words_ , Dipper. She decided to turn off her transmitter herself."

"But then how can we-?" Dipper demanded, but Ford cut him off.

"She said she'll let us know if she's in trouble," Ford said as calmly as he could. "We have to trust that your sister knows what she's doing."

Dipper thought this over for a minute, and nodded. Still, he cast a doleful eye back towards the mansion.

"I guess you're right," Dipper said. "I have to remember she's not a little girl any more."

"Even when she was a little girl she was as tough as you," Stan reminded him. "I'd say you saved each other, like, in an even fifty-fifty split."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Dipper said. "Still..."

"Hey, me and Ford feel the same way," his Grunkle assured him. "We love Mabel too. But we're going to have to trust her. If she's in trouble, she'll find a way to get in touch with us."

Dipper wasn't entirely reassured by that, his mind racing through all the ways their mission could go wrong, especially if he wasn't listening. But for now, he nodded and followed his grunkles back into the van.

* * *

Charlie's contretemps with Ambrose Stevenson ended with him spilling some punch over the historian's head. Stevenson took a swing at the young man, who ducked away and into the waiting arms of a gruff security guard. He calmly implored the young researcher to come with him, and since he looked large enough to pick Charlie up bodily, Charlie assented.

They were just about to leave the party when someone called out "Charlie, is that you?" He turned and saw Pacifica rushing towards him. He was truly baffled, and so was the security guard. They'd met for all of about twenty seconds, and she was acting like they were the oldest of friends. Frankly, he was surprised she remembered his name.

"I didn't see you and I was afraid you wouldn't make it!" Pacifica continued, smiling with exaggerated warmth, taking his hands as the party-goers stared in confusion. "How have you been?"

Charlie, being physically restrained, gestured his head towards the angry historian, who was mopping punch off his head and outfit with a napkin. "Well, things have been a little hairy tonight."

"Oh, that's all right," Pacifica assured him. "You think this is the first time someone's spilled a drink on a person's head in this house? Sorry, Ambrose, he was just kidding around."

Ambrose forced a smile on his face and tore himself away, unwilling to make any further scene. Then Pacifica shot the guard an icy glare; he nodded obediently, released Charlie and went back to his post.

Pacifica took him aside where they couldn't be so easily overheard. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked. "Are you trying to make the biggest scene possible? You don't treat a guy like Ambrose Stevenson like that."

"That was the idea," Charlie muttered, not sure how much he could trust Pacifica with details.

"What, you just show up at parties and make an ass of yourself?" Pacifica demanded, crossing her arms. "You don't look like the type."

"Hey, I'm not ordinarily the type to even show up for parties," Charlie insisted, "but I'm here with Mabel and..."

Pacifica gasped. "Mabel's here? Where is she?" She briefly felt thrilled learning about her old friend's presence, then realized with dread that she must be here for a reason. From their past history, Pines don't just show up at her mansion to say hello - not even Dipper.

"She went to look for-" Charlie stopped himself. Pacifica stared at him, imploring him to give her some clue, some idea of what was going on. Charlie wondered if he should.

"There you are, my dear!"

Pacifica visibly shuddered at hearing her father's voice. She and Charlie saw Preston and Priscilla standing nearby. "You must be Charlie Huston from the Gravity Falls Museum of History. I don't think we've met before," Preston said, extending his hand.

"No, sir, I don't think so," Charlie said, forcing himself to smile.

"So sorry we couldn't make Pioneer Days this year - being a candidate really sucks the time and energy from you, you know. Did you say you were here with Mabel Pines?"

Charlie and Pacifica looked at each other, sensing a trap.

"I remember her - Pacifica's friend from back in Gravity Falls. I think she even dated her brother for a time. Quite an...inquisitive young boy."

"Very inquisitive," Priscilla affirmed through her painted-on smile.

"Where is the little Pines twin?" Preston asked.

"She's taking a powder," Charlie said, eyes darting back and forth nervously. "You know, she filled up on punch and quiches and shrimp. Not very good at self-restraint, that one."

Pacifica laughed. "Sounds like Mabel."

Preston looked between them, his eyes betraying a hint of suspicion. But he merely emitted a quiet, strangled chuckle.

"Come dear, it's time for dinner." He extended a hand, welcoming her to join them. Pacifica looked between her father and this weird, trouble-making nerd, who reminded her briefly of another weird, trouble-making nerd...

"I'll join you in a minute, Dad," Pacifica said. "Charlie and I have some catching up to do."

Preston scowled, and Pacifica looked away in shame and fear. "All right, we'll see you at the table," he said. "Don't leave Chris waiting too long."

Pacifica just nodded as her parents walked away, then released a heavy sigh.

"Daddy issues?" Charlie sympathized.

"You have **no** idea," Pacifica murmured.

At that moment, Graham, looking harried and guilty, brushed past them and towards the door. Charlie shouted "J'accuse!" and pointed at him.

"Oh fuck off, nerd!" Graham snapped, flipping Charlie off and not even noticing Pacifica was standing right beside him. Then he hurried out the door like a man fleeing a crime scene.

"So where is Mabel, anyway?" Pacifica asked, pretending that unpleasantness hadn't occurred. "I figure she's up to something or else she'd be flitting around eating everything in sight."

"Oh, she did plenty of that earlier," Charlie said. "But no, she's..."

"She's **what**?" Pacifica demanded. "Look Charlie, I know what you must think of my family and my dad, and I don't blame you. But Dipper told me what you were looking into and...I think I can help."

Charlie raised an eyebrow skeptically, then fidgeted with his glasses.

"Look, you're Mabel's friend. And I would never do anything to hurt Mabel or Dipper. They're two of my best friends, or at least I think they are." She felt a little guilt, now, over falling out of touch with them. "But you can trust me. You have to trust me."

Charlie didn't seem reassured. He tried thinking what Mabel would do in his place, and how Mabel would trust her friend unconditionally. But he wasn't Mabel, and he wasn't Pacifica's friend, and...this seemed a bit too convenient.

Still, she looked so scared and wounded in the presence of her father...either she was the newest Meryl Streep, or she was being utterly sincere and genuinely terrified. What the hell? He decided. Pretty sure we're screwed anyway.

"Okay..."

 _Author's note: woke up extra creative this morning so there's an early chapter today! Hopefully there will be a second, bonus chapter tonight, since this is too big of a cliffhanger to leave hanging for 24 hours._


	28. Chapter 27: Northwest Mansion IV

_Author's note: Here is your second bonus chapter for today! I'm doing two of these since my schedule's busy this week. Hopefully these last two chapters will suffice, just in case I don't write anything new for a few days._

 **July 14th, 2017**

 **8:20 pm**

Mabel pressed her ear against the study's thick wooden door, hoping to hear signs of Wendy. She couldn't hear a thing inside, which made her even more worried. Fortunately, the door was a simple lock-and-key, and she had brought just the tool. Since her handbag was downstairs in the coatroom, she reached under one of her dress straps and produced the President's Key.

"If Dipper's always going to forget we have this," she said out loud, "I might as well use it." And she jimmied open the lock to the study, sneaking inside as quickly as she could.

She gasped as she spotted Wendy trapped in the chair, her arms handcuffed behind her, her legs fastened to the chair with some kind of leg irons with a padlock.

"Wendy! Are you all right?" Mabel asked.

"I've been better, Mabes," Wendy groaned. "Get over here and help me out of this!"

Mabel obliged, running over and undoing Wendy's hands first. As Mabel fumbled with the leg irons, Wendy stretched out her arms and sighed in relief.

"Thanks Mabel," she muttered. "I haven't been that uncomfortable in...oh **shit**."

Mabel looked up and saw a door in the wall sliding open. The same two guards who had overpowered Wendy earlier emerged from their hidden anteroom, one carrying a truncheon, both of their faces set in stone.

"Look Les, another troublemaker," the first guard growled. The second merely nodded and they took a heavy step towards the girls.

Mabel squeaked in a panic and hastily undid the locks around Wendy's feet. Wendy kicked the chains away and leaped up...Only to loose her balance. To her immense annoyance, her feet had fallen asleep!

Mabel panicked, wishing again that she'd been able to bring her grappling hook along with her. Her eyes darted around looking for a weapon. In desperation, she picked up the leg irons, which were much heavier than they looked. With a groan she tossed them at the first guard...and missed.

Fortunately, Wendy had regained control of her legs. With a cry she stepped forward and kicked the first guard in the stomach, sending him reeling backwards. The other grabbed at her and the two grappled for a long moment; Wendy was tough, but the guard was bigger and stronger and managed to overpower her, trying to force her into a choke hold. Wendy strained against him and tried to block his burly arms from wrapping around her neck, but to no avail.

Then Mabel cracked Preston's brandy bottle over the man's head. It only stunned him for a moment, but it was enough for Wendy to slip free. She kicked the man in the right shin, and as he was reeling away grabbed for his truncheon...Which the first guard managed to knock out of her reach. Wendy stepped on his hand as hard as she could in retaliation, then dodged as he grabbed at her legs.

Even Wendy could only last so long against two much larger men. Her eyes searched for a weapon, but the truncheon, the leg irons were too far out of reach. Out of desperation, she began running back towards the chair as the first guard got to his feet and lumbered after her.

The second guard, meanwhile, started after Mabel. Mabel panicked away until she was pinned against Preston's desk. Then she noticed that the thug was standing on a throw rug. Born of desperation and memories of a million cartoons, Mabel reached down and with a groan pulled the rug as hard as she could. The guard yelled and fell backwards, hitting his head on the floor and losing consciousness.

Mabel pumped her fist in celebration, but it was short-lived. She watched Wendy hiding behind the chair, apparently unable to think about her next move. The guard walked leisurely towards her, smiling.

"Give it up, sweetie," he said. "You made a good fight, but I'm not fooling around any more." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver pistol.

"GUN! WENDY! GUN!" Mabel screamed, terrified and waving her arms.

For a brief moment, Wendy froze in terror. Her life didn't flash before her eyes, exactly, but did she experience a realization that for everything she had ever fought, from demons to shapeshifters to goons and mountain lions and falling timber, it was going to be her fate to die in this room, getting unceremoniously shot by some goon and her body discreetly disposed of.

No. It couldn't be. She was, after all, a flipping Corduroy, and no mere goon would take her out.

The guard hesitated for just a moment, relishing his power of life or death over two young girls. As he cocked the hammer on his pistol, Wendy reached down, yelling a loud battle cry and lifted the chair, wood and metal frame and upholstery and all, off the ground.

With pain and adrenaline surging through her body in equal measure, she managed to lift it over her head and threw it, full force, at her attacker. Before he could react it smashed into him full force, and he fell to the ground with a muffled yelp of surprise. His gun clattered to the wooden floor a few feet away, spinning until it aimed at Mabel, who was too amazed to notice.

Wendy stood there panting, maintaining a throwing pose. As the adrenaline receded she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her back and arm muscles and bent over. Mabel stared at her, still in shock, then rushed over to her friend.

"Wendy! That was incredible!" Mabel shouted as her friend fell to one knee, grunting. "Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened? Did they hurt you?"

"I don't think they did anything," she insisted, rubbing her back. "I just think that last stunt pulled my... _everything_."

Mabel instinctively bent down and hugged her. "Oh Wen-Wen, that was incredible! Dipper is right, about you being the most awesome person ever, I mean!" she gushed. She helped her friend to her feet and sat her down at Preston's desk, where she struggled to catch her breath.

"Thanks, Mabes," she said, leaning back and closing her eyes. "I hope those guys don't wake up because it might take me awhile."

"They both look like they're out cold to me!" Mabel announced. Indeed, neither of them had moved since their unpleasant introduction to Preston's hardwood flooring; the guard with the gun still had Wendy's half-broken chair pinning him to the ground.

"Cool," Wendy said, sitting up and turning back to her friend. "You know, you were pretty badass yourself there, Mabes," she said. "You didn't hesitate for a second to take that first guy out with a liquor bottle, and then you floored him with a rug? Man, that's like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon!"

Mabel laughed. "Well, I do learn from the masters!" she said. "You being the other one!"

The two girls paused for a moment, Wendy sitting, Mabel bent over the desk, wondering what their next move was.

"I wish Dipper was here," Wendy said.

"Me too," Mabel muttered, though she pointedly neglected to turn back on the receiver.

"I mean, not for the physical stuff, but he's always much better at this kind of deciphering, cryptography biz than I am."

"Yeah."

They looked around at each other, then at their two victims, still sprawled on the floor.

"Man...we'd better take care of those guys before we do anything else."

* * *

It took some effort, but Wendy and Mabel managed to herd the two semi-conscious guards back into the closet. Wendy made sure to bind their legs together with the same chains they'd used on her, and slammed the door to their anteroom shut. She unloaded the guard's pistol, threw the gun in a desk drawer and the bullets in a garbage can. Then she and Mabel moved a large chest in front of the door to assure they couldn't get out.

"Man, now I feel more exhausted than I did before," Wendy complained, plopping back into Preston's desk chair. She leaned back, staring thoughtfully as if she wanted to unload something she'd been holding in for a long time.

"Mabel, your brother..." She stopped herself. "This is such an awkward time to have this conversation."

However incongruous it seemed, Mabel's ears always perked up at a hint of matchmaking. But she tried to restrain her excitement, to maintain an appropriate

"What is it, Wen-Wen?" Mabel asked gently.

Wendy sighed. "You know we slept together the other weekend, right?"

"Yeah, Dipper mentioned it."

"Of course he would." Wendy rubbed her face and forehead with anguish.

"I mean, he didn't brag about it or anything," Mabel clarified hastily. "He didn't say that anything... _went on_ between you two. And besides, I kinda figured it out on my own."

"Thought so," Wendy said, smiling. She paused for a long moment, struggling to find the right words.

"Mabes, I don't...Seems like every time I talk to him, he has to tell me how awesome I am, how I'm the coolest person he's ever met, like I haven't heard it from him a million times. Like I need reassurance after six years of friendship. And like, I admit it, it's nice to hear every once in awhile, but..."

She sighed again, channeling all her pain and frustration into a heavy breath. Mabel looked downcast, worried at what she might say next.

"I mean, your brother...he sells himself way too short. He's not the strongest guy in the world, or the most athletic, or even the most together but he's a pretty cool dude himself...And in a lot of ways, we're such opposites. There's no reason why someone like him should hang out with me, and yet we're, like, best friends."

Mabel's mouth dropped open. "Wow."

"Wow what?"

"You know, **you** were always the cool older kid that _we_ wanted to hang out with. Dipper obviously had his thing for you back in the day, but I felt the same way! Well, not the _same_ same, but... I always looked up to you! You were Wendy Corduroy, my badass surrogate older sister!"

"But that's different!" Wendy insisted. "Like, I understand why a 12 year old kid would want to hang out with someone older than them. The older kids seems pretty cool just by _being_ older. I mean, now Dipper's at an age where that shouldn't matter. Where his being crazy smart and super awkward doesn't matter any more - he can go to college and do whatever he wants. All I am is some small-town hick going to a community college."

Mabel's happiness at Wendy opening up suddenly turned to sadness. Is that _really_ how Wendy saw herself? She'd always seemed very comfortable in her own skin. Now she suddenly felt upset.

"Wendy Corduroy, you are not "some small-town hick." There is not a word in that sentence fragment that's remotely accurate. You are strong and fun and funny and awesome and the toughest person I've ever met. You just beat up two guys with a chair! And for all that you're still a cool girl I can talk with about anything, who can give advice, who treats me like a little sister even though I'm a lot _weirder_ than you. And I'm sure Dipper feels the same way." Then she added for emphasis. "I **know** he does."

"Really?" Wendy asked.

"Wendy, he's known you for six years. And he still talks about you and thinks about you all the time. I don't know if you're blind or shy or just playing coy or what but it couldn't be more obvious. You know Dipper can't hide his feelings! You know he spends so much time muttering things under his breath. He calls you the coolest person he ever met all the time because he really **feels** that way."

"You're right, I'm _not_ blind," Wendy admitted. "And I brought this on myself. Like, I always thought he was cool, but I never thought of him in that way. He was too **young** when we first met! But I thought, after all that time, after Pacifica and getting ready for college and all the shit heels I've dated over the years, I thought we didn't have to worry about it any more. Then I...

"Ever since that night, I've been asking myself why I did that, how mean and stupid and selfish I was, knowing that he probably still felt what he felt and I was forcing him into that situation. But it seemed like the right thing to do after everything that happened that night. I dunno, we needed it. I needed it. And ever since...man, I don't even know what's going on in Dip's head, but I can't stop thinking about it. And all this shit with Graham isn't helping, you know? I've dated some real jerks, but I've never had anyone who sold me out like he did tonight."

"What?" Mabel interjected. "That jerk! If it makes you feel better, Wen, when we get out of here I'll get Dipper to track that creep down and gut punch him for you."

"Appreciate the thought, but I'd rather do it myself," Wendy said, smiling. Then, after another pause: "So yeah, that's where we're at."

"Yeah." Mabel gently placed her hand on her friend's. "Well, you know how I feel about love and all that junk. I don't know if Charlie's the one for me, but right now it feels that way. And if you two feel the way you do about each other, then - what's stopping you?"

Wendy held Mabel's hand and the two girls smiled at each other across the desk.

"You know, Mabes? It's pretty nice having someone you can chat like this with right after we've kicked two dudes' asses."

Mabel chuckled. "Definitely! Just think of the conversations we'll have when we're done solving this mystery!"

Wendy felt a little more relaxed, despite everything.

"Hey Mabel, since you mentioned it...want some advice?" she asked.

"Sure!" Mabel said.

"Taking out dudes with a chair - I don't recommend it."


	29. Chapter 28: Northwest Mansion V

**July 14th, 2018**

 **8:30 pm**

"So wait, your dad keeps all kinds of family secrets locked away in a storage room? In his house?"

Despite everything, Charlie couldn't wrap his head around what Pacifica had told him. As an archivist, he would certainly understand wanting to hang onto a century's worth of records. But then, he didn't have generations of monsters populating his family tree. It seemed reckless and stupid.

"He calls it his Hate Room," she told him as she led him upstairs. "Keeps everything horrible he and the family's ever done in there so no one can see it but him. Sometimes he'll go in there for hours and just look around and stare at everything. It's very creepy."

What kind of messed-up family _is_ this? Charlie wondered. He could tell from the pain etched on Pacifica's face that she lived with the answer.

"Why doesn't he just destroy everything?" Charlie wondered. "If I had all this stuff that's so dangerous I'd hire people to retrieve it, I'd probably burn it rather than leave it where someone can find it. Or at least stash

"My dad has his own reasons for doing things," Pacifica muttered mysteriously. She looked around for any sign of Mabel or Wendy. "Now where could those guys have gone?"

"Well, Wendy was interviewing your father," Charlie noted. "Maybe they're in his study."

"Could be," Pacifica said, "but there's, like, no way to get in without a key. He doesn't even like me and Mom going in there. I doubt he'd leave it unlocked."

Charlie tested the doorknob and, to both of their surprise, it opened. "Huh," he uttered as they went inside.

They saw Wendy and Mabel at Preston's desk, examining a panel of buttons, completely baffled. Wendy looked ready to drive her fist through the panel, while Mabel just seemed confused. Until she saw their visitors.

"Charlie! I was wondering how your...Pacifica?" She stared for a moment, uncertain what to make of her old friend's presence, then snapped into Mabel Mode and ran over to greet her.

"Pacifica, thank goodness you're helping us! Dipper was worried that you were going to side with your dad, but I told him..."

"Okay, Mabel, I'm here!" Pacifica reassured her friend, not in the mood for one of her freak outs. "Like, of course I'm going to help you or else I'd be downstairs eating sole with those snobs. I'm not clever enough to be a spy or whatever."

"Don't sell yourself short," Mabel insisted. "You really could betray us if you **wanted** to!" Awkward pause. "Erm, what I _meant_ to say was..."

"Hey Pacifica," Wendy interrupted. "I don't want to cut your reunion with Mabel short, but we need some help over here. Your dad has some kind of control panel and I'm wondering if it lets us into that room."

"Why did you sneak in here?" Pacifica asked. "You know there's a passage in the hallway, right?"

"Mabel found it, but she was too busy saving my butt to try it."

Mabel blushed. "Oh Wendy, we saved each others' butts..."

Pacifica and Charlie walked over to the control panel. There was an alpha-numeric keypad surrounded by four small buttons - one red, one blue, one green and one yellow.

"I know the red button is the room where Dad will keep...unexpected guests." Her tone suggested she'd experienced this firsthand. "Wait, you guys didn't run into any of his goons, did you?"

"Yeah, they were fine!" Mabel smiled while miming a punch, a very Mabel answer which didn't reassure Pacifica in the slightest.

"One of these has to be to the doorway," Pacifica said, trying to think and remember from her past trips into this room. "I'm just worried that one of them will, like, trip a silent alarm or call the police or something."

"Mabel, is that Pacifica?" Dipper's voice crackled in his sister's ear.

"Yes, Dipper," she said. "Don't worry, she's helping us!"

"Wait, how are you talking to Dipper?" Pacifica said, confused.

Mabel gestured to her ear. "I'm all wired up, sister! Just call me Techno Mabel!" She did a brief robot dance, to everyone's bafflement. Pacifica wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but shrugged.

"Anyway, it looks like we've another number thingy, bro-bro," Mabel said. "Do you think they'd use the same code for both doors?"

"Probably not, but I guess that increases our odds," Dipper said. "Let's see..." Mabel could hear typing in the background.

"It increases the odds to one-in-500,000," Stan growled. "I don't think these kids have some kind of time."

"Let me take a crack at it," Pacifica suggested. She entered

"We already tried your birthday and your parents' birthdays," Wendy told her. "They didn't work."

"No, my birthday is the combination for the garage door," Pacifica said. "Wait a minute..." She pictured in her mind some hoodlums sneaking in and stealing her dad's car...and deciding that he probably deserved it.

"Well, it doesn't have to be a date," Wendy said. "It could just be random numbers or something."

"Nah, my dad's mind doesn't work that way," Pacifica said. "Everything a Northwest does has to have some significance..." She thought for a moment, then the figurative light bulb came on.

"Oh God, **of course** ," she muttered. After a moment she entered a code: 09-12-2002. Then, after another moment, she pushed the blue button and a door panel opened!

"Whoa," Mabel uttered. "Dipper, we're in."

"Good job, Pacifica," Wendy said.

"What was the number, anyway?" Charlie wondered.

"September 12th, 2002," she bitterly explained. "The day my grandfather Auldman died and my father took over his company. He always told me _that_ was the happiest day of his life."

"Yeesh," Wendy winced.

The foursome walked inside the panel to a musty, darkened room. Mabel and Charlie each coughed at the dust their presence stirred up. Unfortunately, it was too dark to see, even with the light creeping in from Preston's study.

"Mabel, you didn't bring a headlamp or one of those light-up sweaters, did you?" Charlie asked.

"Nope," she said, "but I do have this!" She held down the jewel on her ring and it shot a bright blue beam of light into the room.

"Man, Ford really is crazy prepared," Wendy marveled.

The investigators walked through the storage room, which seemed much longer and wider than it appeared from the narrow entry ways. There were several stacks of wooden crates, some cardboard boxes, many pried open with weird historical artifacts hanging out - everything from old dolls and playsets to books and paintings.

"Jeez, how much crap is there?" Wendy said, thinking that she heard rats or something skittering around the rafters overhead.

"One hundred fifty four years of family secrets," Pacifica said ruefully. "Anything you want to know about the Northwest family."

"Do you know if he organizes it in any way?" Charlie asked. "By topic, or...?"

"I think just in the order he came into possession of everything," Pacifica said, bumping into an antique rocking chair. "Here's the paintings I showed Dipper," she said, pointing two paintings of Preston Northwest acting like a crook and double-crossing Indians.

"Dipper, I'm going to send you a video as we go through here," Mabel said. "See if you can see it through the light." She flicked the same button on her ring and started broadcasting.

"Those pictures look familiar," Dipper said.

"That's what Pacifica just said," Mabel agreed.

"But there's more," Pacifica said, reaching into a crate and pulling out an impossibly large book. It was entitled _The Secret History of the Northwests, a family confession compiled by Auldman Northwest._

"Holy Moses!" Mabel gasped.

"Wow!" Wendy exclaimed. Charlie just stared in awe.

"I've never really read it," Pacifica admitted, "just looked at the Table of Contents and junk."

"Dip, are you getting this?" Mabel said.

"Yeah! Wow, that's incredible! Do you think there's anyway you can bring it outside?"

"I don't know, it would be a pretty big risk," Mabel said. "Does anybody have their phone?"

Amazingly, everyone shrugged. Though it made sense: who brought a cellphone to a snazzy party?

"Well, try and take videos or photographs as best you can, Mabel," Dipper instructed.

"Yeah, easy for you to say," Mabel complained. "This thing's like 800 pages long."

Pacifica strained under the weight of the book; Charlie chivalrously offered to help, only to yowl as his arms gave out under its weight. Wendy rolled her eyes and grabbed the book herself, carrying it over to a nearby table.

"This book isn't in the greatest of shape," Charlie warned. "Look how brittle and dark the pages are. We have to be careful as possible when reading it or it might fall to pieces."

"Sorry I didn't bring my rubber gloves," Wendy murmured. Pacifica, though, put on some gloves and opened the cover.

"Look here," Charlie pointed out. "There's an appendix listed: Pertinent documents and where to find them. That's how they knew where to find all the microfilms and books and so forth to steal them."

"And they're probably somewhere in this attic," Wendy chimed in.

He, Mabel and Wendy seemed struck with both awe and excitement, a month's long search. Only Pacifica seemed subdued, fearing what she'd find."

"Okay Dip," Mabel said. "I'll try and record this for you as we read. Ready?"

"More than ready, sis!" he affirmed. "Man, this is everything we've been searching for!"

"Well," Pacifica said, voice heavy with dread as she turned to the Introduction page. "Here we go..."

* * *

 _Introduction_

 _By Ambrose Stevenson, Editor_ ("Ha!" Charlie interjected upon spotting the name.)

 _This book offers a thorough documentation of the Northwest Family's true history. It is the result of 30 years of painstaking research and compilation, by the author, myself and other interested family members. Mr. Northwest felt it was important that, despite (perhaps because of) the family's public standing, we document everything, good and bad, warts and all, that Nathaniel Northwest, his descendants and heirs have done from 1863 until the present time._

 _Hopefully, the contents of this book will be useful to discerning historians and Northwest family members alike. There are actions which may seem monstrous on their own accord, but were perfectly justified in the context of their times and place. Until and unless we are able to make such a context palatable to the public, Mr. Northwest. He hopes that someday, his son or grandson will be able to tell the truth about the family history. Until then, consider this book our secret._

 _Ambrose E. Stevenson_

 _Fall 1998_

"Wow!" Mabel said, for once at a loss for words.

"Man, I almost feel like taking back my insults," Charlie said, but his smirk indicated not really.

Pacifica flipped back to a full table of contents. "Part I: Early Years, 1863-1892."

"You guys already know about Nathaniel Northwest and pioneer times, right?" she asked, wanting to hurry through this as quickly as possible. Everyone nodded in affirmation. She leafed ahead to "Part II: The Lords of Gravity Falls, 1892-1919." She let out a deep breath, looking for subheadings, and leafed ahead to the relevant section:

* * *

 _Part II, Chapter X. Gravity Falls at War, 1917-19_

 _Like all of the United States, Gravity Falls was turned upside down by the First World War. Though the town's population numbered only about 1,100 souls, some 107 men enlisted in the military upon the outbreak of war. Most joined the Army, joining up with the 41st Infantry Division. Though much of the division remained in reserve throughout the war, several battalions were deployed to reinforce other units weakened in action. Among them was Richard Ephraim Cordary, a local lumberman who received a Distinguished Service Cross for gallant actions in the Second Battle of the Marne, June 1918._

(" **Cordary**?" Wendy said out loud. "Seriously, Northwest!?")

 _This story, while exciting in its own right, is better-told at length elsewhere, since it only peripherally involves the Northwest Family. The family's son, Thaddeus Northwest, received a draft exempt through Dylan's maneuvering and apprenticed with him at the Northwest Lumber Company throughout the war. The lumber camps were depleted by many employees going off to war, requiring soldiers and National Guardsmen to take their place cutting and hauling wood. Through contracts with the State and Federal government, these years were prosperous for the Northwests..._

(The next several pages detailed these contracts, Thad's involvement with the APL and related information which told our intrepid researchers things they either already knew or didn't consider relevant.)

 _Upon return from the war, many lumbermen, including the aforementioned Rick Cordary, returned to work for the Northwests. Unfortunately, due to discontent stoked by the unfortunate death of two workers in the lumber camps during the war (one, it is believed, murdered due to his efforts to begin a union), their reentry into civilian life wasn't a smooth one. These men butted heads with management, and became inflamed with the radical virus which infected so many workers in the postwar era._

 _Thaddeus Northwest began playing a more active role in the company's operations, convincing the Lumber Company's Board of Directors to release hired Pinkertons and use local guards in an effort to head off tensions. This only seemed to exacerbate them. Several confrontations between Cordary and his workers led to the Northwests declaring a lockout, which in turn triggered a strike._

(The next few pages detailed the struggles of Rick, Becky, Thad and all their allies which have been recounted in our narrative proper, though many of the details were news to Dipper, Mabel, Wendy and Charlie.)

 _Unfortunately, Thaddeus Northwest feared the spread of Bolshevism and felt that his father, and the state and union officials would be unable to contain it. Thus he embarked upon a rash action, using an agent provocateur named Lars Lundquist to stir up agitation among the lumbermen under the name "Christensen." [a footnote mentioned an employment contract for "Lundquist, Lars Sven. Private detective." filed somewhere in the family's corporate archives.] He already played a major role in triggering the so-called "Battle of Gravity Falls" by shooting at Oswald Sprott. Now, Thaddeus urged him to engage in drastic action to affect his desired crackdown._

 _On April 1st, Lundquist threw a stick of dynamite rigged with an explosive device through the window of the Northwest home. The explosion killed a mediator from the Governor's office and a union negotiator; Dylan Northwest was slightly injured, but survived. Thaddeus blamed the explosion on the striking lumbermen and organized a posse to exact vengeance. None stopped to question the incident's specifics, as the cold logic of crushing Communism provided its own rationale._

(Thus followed grimly detailed, almost laudatory descriptions of the assault on the lumbermen's camp, the deaths of Rick and Thad. Becky's rape by Thad was either unknown to the authors, or considered too unspeakable to print.)

 _Once the strike ended, the town made a collective pact to ignore the unpleasantness and deaths caused by the unrest. It would not due to paint a small, close-knit town like Gravity Falls as fratricidal, nor as "Red-mad," especially after the Red Scare of 1919 receded and Americans discovered that Communism had ceased to be the immediate threat everyone feared._

 _Dylan Northwest decided that his first course of action was to strike Thaddeus Northwest from the historical record. This required an act of collective amnesia nearly unprecedented, affected by bribes and coercion of the press and townspeople. More pertinent to this story, it also presented a problem for the family line. Dylan's wife was several years deceased, he had no further heirs, and no close nephews or even nieces to whom he could bequeath the company._

 _A solution, suggested by one of Dylan's assistants, was found. Rebecca Mercer, the fiance of Thaddeus, was discovered to be pregnant. While there were whispers around the town about the child's parentage (she was known to have courted Rick Cordary before the war), Dylan refused to entertain any doubt that it was his grandson. Thus, he arranged with Miss Mercer to adopt her child and raise it as his own, in exchange for money to assist her business. With marked reluctance, Miss Mercer agreed to the arrangement, and her child, born on January 1st, 1920, became George Richard Nathaniel Northwest._

 _Thus, exeunt Thaddeus Northwest, whose rash actions and precipitant violence alienated his father and townspeople, from the historical record. Dylan replaced him with a "son" much younger and much more to his liking, even if he could never be sure about his lineage..._

* * *

By the end of this passage, Wendy's jaw dropped in astonishment. Mabel and Charlie just stared incredulously. Pacifica seemed on the verge of tears.

"Holy crap," Wendy muttered. "Man, I need to sit down or something."

"So, the Northwest family just managed to erase a family member from their line?" Charlie wondered. "That's...wow."

"Think of how rotten he must have been to just eliminate him from history," Mabel said.

Ford's voice pierced through her thoughts. "I've heard of things like this happening in ancient times and medieval Europe, but this is practically unprecedented in modern times. A whole town deciding to forget an entire violent incident en masse? That's astonishing."

"Yeah, something like _that_ 's never happened to Gravity Falls," Stan reminded him.

"Mabel, you need to find a way to carry that book out," Dipper urged her. "We have the pictures, but they could pretend, I dunno, we photoshopped it or something to smear them. For it to be any good..."

"But how?" Mabel wondered. "We're going to need like a truck to carry it out of here!"

"I don't know, we'll figure out something," Dipper said, growing flustered. "Okay, okay..."

"Guys, I think you're burying the lede here," Wendy said. "The part about Rick?"

"I knew your ancestor wasn't a terrorist!" Mabel exulted. "Even if he would have made an _awesome_ one!"

"Phrasing," Charlie muttered.

"Oh, sorry."

"No, you guys..." Wendy said, going back over to the book and reading and re-reading the passage again. "I think it's implying that...the Northwests are descended from my family."

All three of them gasped. Only Pacifica didn't join them, having skulked over to a corner of the room, her head down and her arms crossed.

After a moment's hesitation, Mabel started to go over to comfort her. But Wendy gently stopped her, deciding she was the one who needed to say something.

"Hey," Wendy said, not sure what to say. "If it helps, this whole thing's been pretty crazy to me, too. I mean, I went through the whole thing of thinking my ancestor blew people up when..." Maybe that was the wrong thing to say: it wouldn't comfort Pacifica to remind her, _but one of your family did it instead_. "Anyway, it all happened a long time ago. Shit happened, man. It was a rough time."

"Every time I think I've found the absolute most rotten thing about my family..." Pacifica said. "I told myself I wouldn't pry any more! I've known about this room and everything my father's had in it since I was ten. And now, to think we aren't even Northwests..."

She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, into Wendy's face. She realized, belatedly, what she was about to say...

"Yeah, you might be descended from some hick lumberjacks," Wendy said, nodding. "Which, I don't know, I can see how that might seem like a bad thing if you've always thought your family was to the manor born. But think of it this way. Now you can tell your ancestor was a total badass, a tough guy who got his hands dirty and worked for a living, a war hero who took no shit from anyone, a dude who went home and kept fighting for what he believed in even though it killed him. Damn it, I'm proud of him, and I'm only his great-great-niece.

"Personally, I would be honored to descended from someone as cool as that."

"Well, I didn't think about it that way," Pacifica admitted, forcing a rueful smile. "Maybe...if the world's worst chain can be broken once, it can be broken again."

"Dude, I don't know you all that well, but from the few times we've talked I know you're _nothing_ like your dad," Wendy said. "Somehow he got all the bad parts of the Northwest family without being a Northwest. Nature vs. nurture or whatever."

"I guess what you're saying is, be more of a Corduroy?" Pacifica asked.

Wendy laughed. "No, just be you, dude! It works for me, it works for Dipper and Mabel and it even works for Charlie over there. The you I see isn't some stuck up rich girl, it's someone who decided her friends and some unpleasant truths were more important than your dad's reputation." She shrugged. "I dunno, that seems like pretty Corduroy-like behavior to me."

Pacifica thought about this, then nodded at the redhead and patted her on the back. Then she walked back over to the everyone else, who were all still

"All right everyone, chop chop!" she said, clapping her hands. "Our work here isn't done. Now, I'm no historian, but I'm literate enough to know what a footnote is. That whole chapter spells out everything: employment contracts, newspaper articles, census records, letters, what have you. We've got a whole room full of stuff to look through. Let's get started!"

* * *

And so, over the next few minutes, they sorted through crates and boxes and file folders looking for the pertinent documents. They found Lars Lundquist's contract, records of wire transfers to other agitators, letters written from Thad to different board members spelling out his plans...Charlie seemed practically rhapsodic as he examined them, thinking dreamily about how they'd fit into a nice fat file folder back at the Museum of History.

Within about fifteen minutes, Mabel and Charlie and Wendy's arms were practically bulging with correspondence. Mabel photographed as much of it as she could, until Ford realized that the battery on her ring was starting to run out.

"Guess we're going to have to carry all this out of here," Wendy said, struggling to keep her grip on everything.

"How?" Charlie asked. "Be awful hard to smuggle everything."

"Should have made a hoop skirt..." Mabel groaned.

"Guys," Pacifica said impatiently, pointing at an unfolded box.

"All right," Charlie said, moving over. "Hurry up and put it together."

This request confused Pacifica. "Excuse me? How do I do that?"

"Ugh, seriously?" Wendy asked. "You're gonna be like that after that moment we just had?"

"Well, you said to be myself," Pacifica said helplessly.

Wendy groaned again. She dumped her load of papers in Pacifica's arms, then bent down and folded the box into a cube in a few quick motions.

"Still heavy," Wendy said, closing it tight. "But doable. How can we sneak this out the front door without being seen?"

Just then the light on Mabel's ring flickered and died, plunging everyone into darkness.

"Oh, poop!" Mabel shouted.

"Great, now we have to solve **this** problem first," Charlie muttered.

After a moment, someone struck a match and a dim orange flame lit the room.

"Good thinking, Wendy!" Mabel cheered. "Who comes prepared for everything? This girl!"

"Uhh, Mabes? It's not me."

They all turned and saw, to their horror, the Bald Man standing a few feet away with a match in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Frozen in terror, Mabel managed to tap out the "S" signal into her receiver before turning off her set. She prayed that Dipper understood it.


	30. Chapter 29: Northwest Mansion Finale

**July 14th, 2018**

 **9:30 pm**

Mr. Questadt emerged from the shadows with his gun trained on the four terrified detectives.

"My favorite people in the world," he said, "except one. Did your brother decided to sit this one out? Well, it's all the same to me. And thank you for collecting all the incriminating evidence in one place! How delightful."

"But...Grunkle Stan said you were done with this!" Mabel insisted.

"You think I care about your goddamned Grunkle?" he replied nastily. "Please. You people have caused me too many problems to just walk away. Besides, there's a reason people like Preston hire me. When I'm paid, I always see the job through."

"You aren't going to destroy that stuff," Pacifica insisted, looking to Wendy for help. "You were paid to save it, deliver it all here to my dad."

Questadt nodded. "Yeah, that's true. But something tells me that he'd prefer I destroy it rather than have everything fall into the wrong hands. Even Preston isn't that stupid."

"Now look here, Baldy!" Mabel shouted. "Even if you destroy all this, we've already made copies of all the documents! They're going to be sent to all the newspapers on the West Coast. And Mr. Northwest will be ruined."

"Well, that's a relief!" the man chuckled. "Then I don't have anything to lose, do I? Good, we can make it all personal." He pulled back the hammer on his pistol and stalked towards the box of papers. Mabel watched his match burn down to his fingers, and to her horror he barely seemed to notice.

Pacifica stepped in his way. "No way, if you're going to destroy this stuff you have to go through me!" She smirked. "Maybe you're right about my dad not caring if you destroy all this incriminating junk, but I'm sure he'll have to something to say if you mess with his daughter."

Questadt paused to consider this. He finally seemed to notice the match burning around his fingers, blew it out and struck another one - all without moving.

"You're right," he said. "Wouldn't want to hurt daddy's little princess, would we? Have it your way."

He calmly swung his pistol around towards Mabel, Charlie and Wendy, who threw their hands in the air. After a moment's hesitation he pressed the gun against Charlie's forehead.

"You, tough guy," Questadt snarled. "You're already lucky to be walking around. How about you be chivalrous and take a bullet for your little girlfriend!"

"You let him go!" Mabel shouted helplessly. She exchanged glances with Wendy, hoping that her friend had something planned. Meanwhile, Charlie just stared at the gun barrel, trembling with terror.

A long, seemingly endless moment. Pacifica bowed her head and started to move out of Questadt's way. Questadt took a few cautious steps towards it, still aiming his gun at Charlie.

Mabel saw a brief flicker of blue light splash through her eyes. She looked down and saw that the light on her ring had flickered back to life! She turned to Wendy, hoping that she had noticed it. Wendy let out the slightest of smiles, then nodded in affirmation. Silently they formulated a plan.

 _Here goes nothing_ , Mabel thought, realizing that if this didn't work, Charlie and Wendy and her and maybe even Pacifica weren't walking away from this. But what other choice did they have.

"Hey Baldy!" Mabel called. "You've been nothing but trouble since we met you. It's about time that you see the light!"

This incredibly lame pun caused Questadt to turn his head. He then winced and shouted as Mabel shot a beam from her ring directly into his eyes. He staggered backwards, momentarily blinded.

Quickly. Wendy jumped forward and kicked him hard in the stomach with the full force of her boot. Questadt doubled over in pain. Before he could recover, Pacifica snapped into action and pulled the gun out of his hand. Then Charlie rushed forward, grabbed Questadt's left hand with all his might and blew out the match. The room went dark; Pacifica yelled and dropped the pistol onto the floor. Wendy kicked their attacker twice more until they heard him fall to the floor, groaning in pain.

"Come on, guys! Let's get out of here!" Wendy shouted.

"But Wendy, what about the stuff? We can't just leave it!" Mabel shouted into the darkness.

"Come on, Mabel! You guys already have enough to hang all this on my dad!" Pacifica insisted.

Even in the dark, they could hear Questadt staggering to his feet. Wendy kicked him again until he fell back to the floor. However, they could hear him dragging himself along the floor, fumbling for his weapon.

"Wendy, what do you think?" Mabel demanded.

"I think Pacifica is right," Wendy said, reluctantly. "None of this matters if we're all dead. We got what we came for, didn't we?"

"I second, or third that," Charlie added. "Discretion is the part of valor."

"You're all a bunch of scaredy-cats!" Mabel shouted. "We've come too far to just run away! If this stuff's worth killing for, it's worth risking our lives for. Plus, we've beaten this baldy before, we can't let him scare us off now!"

She played with her light, then shined it on Questadt, who was about a foot away from his pistol on the floor. He raised a hand to shield his eyes at the light. Wendy stepped forward and stomped him down with her boot. Charlie ran over and grabbed the gun away from him, his hand quivering as he aimed it at their tormentor.

"Man, Ford was right," Wendy said to their hostage. "You really aren't good at your job." Then she stepped off his back and backed up beside Charlie.

"Dude, not to embarrass you, but you're holding that gun all wrong," Wendy said to Charlie. "Like, you're not even pointing it at him. Here, let me-"

She touched his wrist, and Charlie instinctively fired a round into a crate, making Mabel and Pacifica scream. Wendy, her ears ringing, angrily snatched the weapon away from him and aimed it at Questadt's head.

"Sit tight, buddy," Wendy told him, barely able to hear her voice over the tinnitus. "You're not going anywhere!"

* * *

Downstairs, the dinner reached its final course, and Preston started feeling ill. Something was wrong.

He hadn't been able to concentrate without his daughter present. He made small talk without noticing who was speaking to him or absorbing what they had to say. He smiled at his wife without exchanging a single word with her. He gave a dinner speech without hearing himself talk. The filet of sole and succulent crabs, even the creme brule turned to ash in his mouth.

Where could she be? Whoever Mr. Huston was - and if she knew Mabel Pines, he can't have been someone good - he can't have been so fascinating as to delay Pacifica for an hour. So he had to tell everyone present that his charming daughter was indisposed, that she wasn't feeling well but that she'd try to join them for the reception later.

Now, however, he was at the point of worry. He quietly excused himself and pulled Pierre aside.

"Have you seen Miss Northwest lately, Pierre?"

"No, sir. I believe I saw her upstairs about an hour ago, but I didn't think anything of it."

"An hour ago? This would have been a half-hour after dinner began. I'm going to seriously consider firing you, you know!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the butler muttered.

Preston raged and rushed up the stairs. He had to do _everything_ himself, didn't he?

He opened his study and saw that things were askew. Someone had been rifling through his desk, had smashed his brandy and broken a chair. And, of course, Ms. Corduroy was no longer there.

Then he saw the chest against the wall, and put two and two together.

He pushed the chest away and forced open the door. He saw his two guards, still chained together, asking for help. Instead, Preston groaned in disgust and locked them back up.

Those damned kids were here and going to ruin everything. He hoped, he prayed that Pacifica hadn't betrayed him again.

He found the pistol from one of the guards, but checked and angrily noted that it was empty. Then he moved over to the control panel and entered the combination. The door slid open, and entered with a small flashlight.

"Pacifica, darling? Are you in your father's study? You know I don't like you to come in here."

Frantic whispers came from somewhere in the room. Preston edged closer, noticing that many of the boxes and crates had been opened.

"Pacifica, I don't know what you're playing at, but..."

He stopped when saw the improbable tableaux. Wendy holding a gun against Mr. Questadt, who was sitting with his back against a crate, looking humiliated. Mabel and Charlie, holding hands, had frozen and were staring at Preston in shock. And Pacifica tried to hide behind Wendy, but attracted her father's attention anyway.

"Well, I guess I should have expected you would all be here. When I saw Ms. Corduroy and heard the name Pines, I should have known trouble was coming for me. And Pacifica -"

"Don't come any closer, creep!" Wendy shouted, aiming her pistol at the elder Northwest.

Preston blinked heavily but didn't miss a beat. "Come now, that's no way to treat your cousin, is it, Ms. Corduroy? Of course, you know that by now, right? It's not really a secret any more. Between you and me, that's not a secret worth risking your life for?"

"No, it wasn't!" Wendy said angrily. "At least it wasn't until you sent this creep to mess with me and my friends! Now you've been acting like a goddamned mob boss and you're gonna have to explain that to your adoring constituents."

"The cover-up is worse than the crime, huh?" Preston stepped even closer, causing the redhead to lose her cool, to start backing away from him. Preston instinctively sensed he now he had the upper hand.

"Well, that's what they say, anyway. But these days, you'd be amazed with what a politician can get away with..."

Despite her bravado a moment ago, Wendy'd never fired a gun in anger before, in fact she hated guns and only had a small amount of experience with them. She certainly didn't think she could shoot a man, however deserving, in cold blood in front of his daughter.

"So why don't you give me the gun, and we'll all go our separate ways, no harm, no foul," he said, his voice practically a whisper.

Wendy, the eternally cool, the ever-unflustered, had been bested. And now Questadt, who had previously been watching the scene with detached amusement, stirred to his feet and began walking towards Mabel and Charlie with undisguised menace in his eyes.

"Pacifica, maybe this is a good reminder to mind the company you keep," he lectured his daughter. "Now why don't you go downstairs to the party and we'll talk about this later."

Pacifica looked at her friends, trying to think of something she could say or do to help them. But nothing came to mind. And her heart collapsed as she realized, yet again, that her father had beaten her. Her father always won.

"I'm sorry, Wendy," she said, exiting the room, dejected and terrified. She felt ready to cry her eyes out, and crept out into the hall...

Where she saw about a dozen men in dark blazers, some of them armed, swarming the mansion.

One of them, a gray-haired man with spectacles who looked _awfully_ familiar, was in a shouting match with Pierre.

"Now listen here, Frenchy!" he barked. "We're with the FBI, and there's a wanted fugitive at this party who may be endangering everyone's lives."

"Sir, I do not know what you're talking about..."

"You realize that you can be held as an accessory if you don't cooperate?" the leader shouted.

"I demand the name of your superior!" the Butler snapped. "You have already caused a great deal of embarrassment to Mr. Northwest and his family..."

Pacifica stumbled past them in a daze. Then she saw a slender young man creeping up the stairs. Unlike the other men, his hair was longer and he wore sunglasses to disguise his identity. Then she brushed past him, and got a good look, and...

"Dipper?" she whispered.

"Pacifica," he said, jaw dropping. "What the -?"

"What are you doing here?" she said. "What is all this?"

"We got a message that Mabel's in trouble," he barked. "We know she's here, Pacifica, and your father's goons are probably with him."

She nodded and led him down the hallway. Dipper signaled to his leader, who of course was Ford, and Ford pushed off from the Butler and waved two more men to follow them. Or one was a man, heavyset and staring straight ahead, carrying a baton. The other was a woman with wavy brown hair, who toted a taser.

"Hey Pacifica dude, we're here to help Mabel!" Soos said.

"Well that, and I wanted an excuse to test out my taser," Melody admitted, giggling.

"Melody, you would make the best FBI agent ever," her boyfriend assured her.

"Oh man, you brought the whole crew along!?" Pacifica said incredulously. Then she grabbed Dipper's arm and led him down the hallway to the no-longer-secret passageway. She slammed in the pass code, and after a moment the door popped open.

Preston Northwest was right in Wendy's face; Wendy had the gun pressed back against her chest, still resisting to. Mr. Questadt was whistling a tune and slowly powering up his cattle prod, closing in on Mabel and Charlie with sadistic relish.

"Oh boy," Dipper said.

"Freeze!" Ford rushed into the room with his magnet gun drawn. "This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation! Hands where we can see them!"

Preston turned and raised his hands in shock. Wendy immediately recognized the "agents" and smiled in delighted relief, but she kept up the pretense and threw the pistol to the ground. Questadt groaned with anger; Dipper spotted the cattle prod, then rushed over and slammed the big man against a crate, forcing him to drop his weapon.

"Not so tough now, are you...tough guy?" he said, fastening the crook's hands behind his back with a zip tie.

"Man, you're even worse at one-liners than your sister," Questadt growled.

"Well, maybe, but I don't think you're in a position to judge!" Dipper said proudly.

"Tell ya what," their opponent sighed. "Next time I have to choose between you and this asshole, I'd rather be on your side."

"Let's go, dude," Soos said, putting a hand on Questadt's shoulder. Melody gave him a small jolt with her taser, and he yelped. "Oh, come on!"

"I have to say, Agent, thank you for saving me from these intruders," he said. "Now..."

"Stuff it, Northwest," Ford barked. "I don't have anything to charge you on, so you're free to go...for now. But we're going to impound all this material as evidence!"

"Evidence? Evidence of what?"

"You just told us there was a burglary," Ford said. He whistled, and several burly-looking men - mostly regulars at the Skull Fracture, awkwardly duded up in suits - walked in and started carrying crates and boxes away.

"But these are all my possessions!" Preston complained. "You'll have to deal with a lawsuit."

"Yeah, just try suing the Federal government while you're running for office," Ford told him. "I'm sure that will go over well with your constituents."

"Hey, that is a priceless antique!" Preston complained, following two "agents" carrying out an expensive painting of Nathaniel Northwest.

Once they were out of sight, Dipper ran over to Mabel and gave her a crushing hug. "Oh my God, Mabel, are you all right?"

"We are now, Bro-Bro!" she said gratefully. "Thanks to you and your..." she snickered. "Secret agent friends!"

"Awesome specs, man!" Wendy teased him. "You totally don't look a day under 19!"

"Thanks, that's what I was totally going for," he said. "Man, I leave you guys alone on a mission and this is the mess you get into? Remind me not to leave you all alone again."

"Well, Charlie's no substitute for you, Dip," Mabel said, slugging her boyfriend's shoulder. "It was pretty cool how you snatched Baldy's gun away from him, though!"

"Just glad I could help," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. Dipper nodded and the two fist-bumped.

"Thanks for saving the day, Dip," Wendy said.

"Well, you guys did the hard work, we just came in for clean-up duties," he said.

"Hey, a sports analogy," Wendy said. "You're getting to be less and less of a dork every day."

"It will be until I start making jai alai jokes," Dipper said.

The two smiled at each other, leaving unsaid what should be said for a little while longer. Then Dipper spotted Pacifica pressing up against the wall, watching Ford's men clear out her dad's possessions.

"Hey Pacifica," Dipper said. "Thanks for helping out." He noticed her dress. "Wow, you like amazing tonight."

"Well, it was the right thing to do," she said. "And thanks! Too bad _you're_ such a dork, though!"

Dipper chuckled. "Yeah, I know. Still, Stan made us these counterfeit G-Man badges which are totally awesome." He pulled one out and Pacifica admired its handy work, even if the badge appeared to made of a highly polished tin can.

"Impressive," Pacifica said. "So are you going to, like, go bust a drug-smuggling ring or crack down on terrorists now?"

"Who knows? Once you join the Bureau, the sky's the limit."

A long, awkward pause.

"Do you think you guys have enough to take down my father?" Pacifica asked. "I mean, I don't want you to have gone through all this for nothing."

"Well, if those crates have everything Mabel showed us in them, we should be able to document your whole family's history pretty well. And who knows? Maybe even some things about your dad."

Pacifica nodded. "Well, at least _someone_ will have the guts to stand up to him," she said. Then she raised her head, and muttered: "Dip, I've missed you."

"I missed you, too, Pacifica."

"Do you think we could...Like, I'm not asking you out on another date, I know all that's over. But, maybe we could at least hang out some time? You and Mabel mean a lot to me, and it hurts that we haven't talked in, like, non-traumatic circumstances for two years."

"I'm sure I can make room for you in my schedule," Dipper said. "Especially now that I know you're a secret Corduroy."

Pacifica gasped, then remembered that Dipper had been eavesdropping on their investigation.

"Well, there are worse things to be," she admitted. "A Northwest, for instance. The daughter of _Preston_ Northwest, for another!"

"Pierre, what happened to my Lincoln!? The garage is empty!"

"Oops!" Pacifica uttered, remembering her mistake with the control panel. She and Dipper laughed and then gave each other an affectionate hug.

As he peeled himself away and rejoined his friends, Pacifica smiled, leaning against the wall, playing with her necklace. Finally, for the first time in awhile, Pacifica Northwest had done the right thing.

* * *

Agents Soos and Melody hustled Questadt into the back of a waiting car. As they started driving away, the officer in the passenger seat turned around and grinned at him.

"Hey there, friend!" It was Blubs - _of course_ it was Blubs. "Getting into trouble again, I see."

"Great," Questadt sighed, putting his face in his hands.

"Now, I reckon there are plenty of charges we could bring against you back in Gravity Falls," the Sheriff continued. "Several accounts of burglary, assault and battery, attempted murder, conspiracy, obstruction of justice...But I'm sure we don't need to do all of that. Man like you's smart enough to know how the game is played."

Questadt groaned. "What do you want?"

"Just for you to prove that you aren't the biggest fish in the sea," Blubs continued. "All that junk we're hauling away from your boss's house is nice, but something tells me it ain't gonna be enough to bring him down. And there's no reason **you** have to be the only one to suffer, is there? What do you say?"

Questadt looked down at the floor of the car, considering it. Then he said:

"You know what? That bastard paid me about half a million dollars, and all I got was the shit kicked out of me by a bunch of kids. Let's say I owe him a favor."

Blubs and Durland looked at each other and smiled. It was nice to get their man for a change.

 _Author's note: Wow, it took much longer to get through the mansion than I expected! That said, I enjoyed every minute of it and I hope you did, too. Stay tuned as we wrap things up with a couple more quick chapters._


	31. Chapter 30: 1920

_Author's note: just wanted to wrap up the flashback plot with a quick chapter. The next chapter will probably be the last, and it might take a few days to make sure I get it just right!_

 **January 20th, 1920**

Rebecca Mercer sat on the train platform, pretending to read a newspaper. As ever, the world roiled with turmoil: Prohibition had gone into nationwide effect a few days earlier (it had actually been outlawed by Oregon in 1915, though judging from the business Wentworth's did, few in Gravity Falls cared), the Federal government had been rounding up more suspected radicals, there was talk of presidential campaigns and fixed World Series and Senate debates over the League of Nations, none of which she particularly cared about. The last nine months had been enough of a nightmare for her without the background noise intruding.

It had been bad enough, that dark night the previous April, when her fiance assaulted her, then proceeded to murder the man whom she really loved, leaving his beautiful body to rot in the rain. (That Thad himself died as well barely registered; the moment he tore her dress and forced himself upon her, he ceased being human anyway.) Events grew more sickening when Dylan Northwest, the Monster's father, ordered in the National Guard and cleared out the surviving lumbermen at bayonet point. And things grew even worse, a few months later, when Rebecca started vomiting at inopportune moments and realized that she was pregnant.

It was bad enough being a single woman running one's business in a town like Gravity Falls - it was small, it was close-knit and clannish, everyone talked about everything. But she managed, through her pleasant personality and professionalism, to make friends, retain customers and keep the worst of the whispering out of earshot. But now that she was pregnant, a condition she could only hide for so long, no matter how many corsets or bodices she employed, it would make her an outcast. She desperately tried thinking of a way out, but couldn't stomach the obvious alternatives.

Then one day in September, about the time that she could no longer hide her condition, she received a message from Dylan Northwest about "a matter of some importance." She wondered what effrontery brought the Monster's father to call on her, but she acquiesced. The pragmatic part of her swallowed her resentment and desire for revenge, and she dutifully wore her best dress and a morning veil and took a carriage up to the Northwest Mansion.

He introduced himself and blathered away about business arrangements, trying to assuage both his guilt and anger over what had happened. "We've managed to make deals with this new labor leader, Mr. Black, and I think we'll have the logging camps running again soon. A shame that we couldn't have reached a reasonable accommodation before...all that."

But Rebecca wasn't interested. "Mr. Northwest, forgive my bluntness but I am not here to hear about your business arrangements. My time is very precious, especially now and I would like to know the reasons for your calling."

"My apologies, Madam," Dylan said with exaggerated courtesy. "Where are my manners?" He poured himself a drink, which he gulped down in one long sip, then sat down across from Rebecca and forced himself to talk.

"I understand you are with child," he said. She nodded.

"Do you know who the father is?" he asked. Her grim facial expression answered him; he sighed in disgust and poured himself another drink.

"I know that you were on friendly terms with the late Mr. Corduroy," he said. "And, of course, you were betrothed to... _my son_." (He said these words in a deep, indiscernible cough, as if clearing his throat of a demon.) "What a tragedy for you, losing the two most important men in your life in such short order." He shook his head in pity and stood back up, began pacing around the room.

"Of course, Thaddeus was not a model son," he admittedly with strained understatement, looking wistfully out a window. "But he was _my_ son. And now I have no heir, no wife, no one to carry on the family legacy. The Northwest line, I am sad to say, will die with me."

Rebecca feared where this might be going, and nervously shifted in her seat.

"And I think of you, ma'am," he said, still looking down on the town he and his family had ruled over for almost six decades. "What will you do?"

"I am going to close my shop and go live with my sister in Ohio," Rebecca replied firmly. "There is no future for me here."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said, finally turning back towards her. He picked the glass off the table and examined it, not facing his guest.

"You have a child that will be born illegitimate," he said. "A child I sense you don't want or need, for that matter. I on the other hand lack a child." He rolled the glass around in the palm of his hand, waiting for her to get the point.

"I see," she said after a moment. "So you want a Mercer to become a Northwest."

"You can put it that way, if you like," Dylan said. "I will of course raise the child as my own, and I will give you $5,000 in expenses for help relocating and setting up business elsewhere. If you need more than that, I will gladly pay it. After everything that's happened, it's the least I can do."

He crossed in front of her, placing the glass down and fixing the woman with his eyes.

"Either way, I think it would be advantageous to both of us. I am already doing my best to keep all that unpleasantness out of our collective memory. No one wants to remember what happened here, least of all me. Thad is already a ghost, a rumor, maybe a dream. And Rick Corduroy...well, a legend, a tall tale. We must deal with what's real and feasible and in front of us right now."

Rebecca scowled at him, turning over the idea in her head. Then she stood, unsteadily.

"I will give your offer consideration, Mr. Northwest," she said. "I cannot say whether your son or Rick is the father, but it is _my_ child and I'm determined to bring it to term. My answer will depend upon who was the father."

"And how will you know?" Mr. Northwest laughed incredulously.

"A woman knows," she said mysteriously. In fact it wasn't anything so mystical as she implied; she knew that if she gave birth to an infant with fire-red hair, that she could guess who the father was. But there would be no way to tell until she actually gave birth. So she relished leaving Dylan in his agony, walking out the mansion door and departing, knowing that he must wait several more months for his answer.

* * *

In fact, she gave birth just after New Years', helped by Rick's sister Dorothy and her brother Duke. She had decided to leave the child with them if it turned out to be a Corduroy. They could raise it the right way, with all the strength and background that Rick could have given it. But as she strained and screamed, letting her child into the world, she still couldn't be sure.

The baby's hair was light colored. Too light to tell what it was. And despite her assurance - maybe it had inherited her looks instead of Rick's, or so she hoped - it was too uncertain to be sure. And she did not want to raise, or inflict on anyone else a child who might indeed be Thaddeus Northwest's.

So she made the arrangement, giving the child to Dylan's handlers with only the barest hint of regret. Shortly afterwards she contacted her sister, bought her train ticket and prepared to leave.

She was met at the train station by Dorothy and Duke and a few other friends, who bade her a tearful farewell. She would miss them, but it wasn't worth a few friends in a town full of angry, judgmental monsters. Several of whom had arrived to stare at her like a freak, watching the harlot be run out of town.

She boarded the train and grabbed a window seat as it started to pull from the station. Her friends waved her a hearty goodbye until she was out of site. She looked over the familiar woods and hills and the waterfall outside her hometown wistfully. She would live a fulfilling life, marry and have legitimate children, continue running her own business and even run for State Representative in her adoptive state of Ohio. But all of that was deep in the future; no Mercer would return to Gravity Falls, even to visit, for several generations.

As she neared the old site of the striker's camp, now a road, she could have sworn she saw Rick's ghost by the treeline, hefting an ax and bidding her a silent farewell. But she decided it was merely an illusion, a trick of the mind. And so, as the train headed eastward, she put Rick Corduroy out of her mind as best she could.

* * *

In fact, Rebecca's son - named George by his adoptive father - soon saw his hair turn a dark auburn color, much darker than his father's but redder than his mother's. Dylan raised him as well as an aging single father could in those days, hiring a much-younger nanny to help take care of him, teaching him to hunt and fish and ride horses and the rudiments of the family business. If he ever doubted that George was Thad's son, he kept them to himself, but he could never be sure, he always _suspected_.

And part of him, indeed, wished that he wasn't.

It didn't matter anyway: by the time Dylan passed away, George was indeed a Northwest. Any Corduroy traits were sublimated into the faintest of physical resemblances, and he took over the family business with the same mixture of paternalism and cruelty that his "father" had exercised. The former strain, the fatherly regard for his townspeople and his workers, however uncouth or unlearned, however much tempered with an iron fist, would quickly drain from the family veins, leaving only the cruelty.

At least, until Pacifica Elyse Northwest broke the chain.


	32. Chapter 31

**July 17th**

The fall of Preston Northwest took exactly one month to unfold, from the first burglary in Gravity Falls to the end of his campaign.

The first stories about Preston's checkered family history caused a minor stir, however copiously-documented they were. As Stan had predicted, few Oregonians cared overmuch about century old horror stories about corporate villains stomping on organized labor. A few of Preston's supporters even came away with their opinions of the man enhanced; after all, sometimes those unions got out of hand, and what about real communists?

It didn't take long, however, for the narrative to change. The tales of break-ins and assaults and general criminal behavior took only a few hours to sink in; another dull Senate race became a grandiose soap opera, blowing up overnight. Reporters, voters and even Preston's benefactors asked themselves the same question Dipper, Mabel, Wendy and other members of the Mystery Team had asked all along: why did Preston care so much about this long-ago incident that he'd engage in criminal actions to hide it? And more pertinently, what else might he be hiding?

Thus intrepid reporters found long-forgotten articles and bits of info about shady financial dealings, crude treatments of employees and general corruption and boorishness. Most damning, a reporter for the _Wall Street Journal_ who had been mooting Preston as a "Political Face of the Future" received an anonymous tip about his siphoning funds from his green energy business for his own use. His biggest victim was McKinley Dirksen, his oldest benefactor and closest partner, who had lost at least half a million dollars directly into Preston's coffers.

The actual process of legal justice could take months, even years to prove this, to cycle through everything. But in the age of 24 hour news and social media, public opinion worked amazingly fast. So fast, that even Preston couldn't keep up with it.

On Tuesday morning, he held a press conference at his mansion denying "these incredible allegations." "It seems like my enemies, the Oregon establishment and their allies in the media, have pounced upon a minor historical event, twisted and distorted beyond all reason, in an effort to smear my family and personal name. There is no reason whatever to give credence to these reports, these awful slanders."

Maybe some of his supporters liked this appeal to fake news and establishment conspiracies. But to most people, who saw Preston as a responsible counterweight to that sub-moronic, factually challenged mindset, his words seemed ugly and absurd and false - and all too familiar.

There were rumblings from Roadkill County that a district attorney would press charges for the break-in and cover-up. That Mr. Questadt was spilling the beans on everything he knew. That other staff members and associates and personal servants, even as he spoke, were talking either to reporters or investigators or both. Preston knew that the Northwest name, which had fought this whole time to sustain and rehabilitate, would collapse if things progressed much further.

Some politicians would, and could, circle the wagons and hunker down, buffeted by supporters and benefactors and a party structure. But Preston, the true independent, had no such luxury. The knives came out with lightning speed; even Mac Dirksen, the man who had most helped him and whom he had hurt most of all, refused to return his calls.

By Tuesday night, after 48 hours of nightmares, after the briefest of conversations with his wife and daughter and chief of staff and campaign manager, he came to a decision.

* * *

 **NORTHWEST QUITS**

 _Cites allegations, lack of support, "media circus"_

"Sweet!" Wendy cried, pumping her fist as she browsed through a newspaper at the college coffee shop. She was amazed at how quickly their poison had done its work; never underestimate the damage that the Pines twins and their friends can do when they put their minds to it!

She felt a rush of pride in her friends and herself for everything they'd pull through. To think that this whole investigation had started as a distraction for Dipper, and now they had wrecked a political campaign.

(Sure, the closest they came to receiving actual credit was a reference to Toby Determined's long-ignored stories in the Gravity Falls _Gossiper_. She felt a little chagrined, but that little gnome deserved a win. He'd gone through as much as they had over the past month, after all.)

Wendy received a text from Dipper: _"We won!"_ And smiled. She had a date at the lake with Dipper and Mabel later that afternoon, and this news ensured they had plenty to talk about.

Of course, Wendy recognized that there were more personal, pressing things to discuss as well. Things that they had both been putting off for the past few weeks, because all the craziness going on around them had seemed more important.

She left and walked outside, enjoying a warm, sunny summer day in which, for the first time in awhile, her only stress was in her personal life. She waved at a college friend who biked past her, then checked her phone and saw another text:

 _Hey Wen - me and Robbie are coming up for Woodstick next month! Not sure about Nate, Lee and Thompson, but if they say no we'll twist their arms and make them come. It's been awhile girl, we've missed you! - Tambry_

Wendy had only a moment to absorb this latest bit of good news. Because she spotted, leaning against a bench, none other than Graham, holding up a newspaper with two younger girls adoringly fawning over him.

"Yeah, I scored an interview for the Roadkill County _Times_ with Preston - his last interview before he dropped out of the race," he gloated. "Pretty sweet, huh?"

The girls nodded in agreement and uttered awed affirmation. Wendy briefly thought about being the better woman and walked away, but then she remembered what Graham had done to her, and didn't want anyone else to fall for his shit.

"Hey Graham," she said casually. Graham practically jumped out of his skin at the sight of her. Wendy used the opportunity to snatch the newspaper away from him.

"Preston Northwest Talks Character, Issues, Importance of Youth Vote," she read out loud. "Funny how those things didn't come up when his goons beat me up and handcuffed me to a chair in his mansion, huh?"

"What is she talking about, Graham?" one of the girls asked, confused.

"Yeah, it's no big deal. A politician turns out to be a sleaze, right? What is a big deal, though, is that this creep was there when it went down. And not only that, he led me into a trap and watched as some security guards knocked me out and left me alone in some rich bastard's clutches. Not only an intrepid journalist but a totally romantic dude, right?"

The two girls started to back away from Graham, who scowled at his ex.

"Wendy, I don't know what you're..." He was always a bad liar, Wendy noted.

"Cool, then let me spell it out for you," she said. "After you jumped ship, Preston revealed himself to be an utter creep and criminal, and that's when all this shit you're reading about went down. Fortunately, you and he made a mistake whole generations of people made: never underestimate a Corduroy."

"Wendy, you've always had an interesting imagination," Graham said weakly. But he could tell the two girls found Wendy's story more convincing than his feeble protests.

"Yeah, like how I imagined you were a smart, decent guy instead of a total shitheel," she agreed. "Guess I just saw what I wanted to see in you for longer than I should. That's a mistake I keep making with guys. Maybe I am as dumb as you say."

Graham didn't know what to say to that, so Wendy smirked and pressed her advantage.

"All I know is that generally, us gals don't appreciate being double-crossed and left for dead in the clutches of a creep. Even if it's by a self-proclaimed genius."

She folded the newspaper and placed it on the bench next to Graham. "Oh, and one more thing," she said after a moment's pause.

Then she punched him in the gut as hard as she could, sending Graham sprawling to the ground. The two girls gasped in shock, one instinctively bending down to comfort him. The other just stared in shock, and maybe a little admiration.

"You ladies can do so much better," Wendy concluded. "And Graham, just be lucky that you're not rotting in a jail cell next to your friend Preston."

Then she walked off triumphantly, shaking off the pain in her knuckles and feeling infinitely better about the next guy she planned to see.

* * *

Mabel didn't understand why Charlie wasn't returning her calls. They hadn't spoken since Saturday night, except for a brief text after the news broke on Monday. When she went to the Museum that day, he pretended to be too busy to talk to her. Mabel decided to spend the day with Isabel instead, but even the prospect of knitting a new summer dress didn't assuage her worry.

"I don't understand," Mabel said. "I know you weren't there Saturday night, but why isn't Charlie talking to me?"

"I dunno, Mabel," Isabel replied, focused on her stitching. "Did you say anything to him that might have upset him?"

"No," she said, though she remembered that she had teased him about being a poor substitute for her brother. He didn't take that seriously, did he? She teased him all the time and didn't seem to mind.

"Well, you told me about what happened over the phone yesterday," Isabel continued. "Pretty crazy stuff! I wish I'd been there to help you get that bald jerk's butt, or at least, you know, hold out a leg and trip him or something. But, I don't know, it sounds like you and Wendy did all the heavy lifting and maybe that's got him down."

"That's not true," Mabel insisted. "Charlie wouldn't care about that stuff. Besides, he helped us!"

"How, by boring everyone to death with lectures on the Civil War?"

Mabel remained silent, not letting on how close to the truth she was.

"Look, Charlie's always been Charlie," Isabel said. "He gets insecure about a lot of things, maybe things he shouldn't. And, I dunno, he's a guy. Maybe being rescued by two ladies doesn't make him feel too good - even if it's ladies as awesome as you and Cousin Wendy." She added the last phrase with undisguised pride, feeling an awesome affinity for the Corduory clan.

"Charlie's never cared about that stuff before," Mabel repeated, with less conviction than before. Upon reflection, maybe her friend was right.

Charlie wasn't the most macho guy, and he didn't really try to be. And that's what Mabel liked about him. He was gentle and friendly, he was smart and talkative, he'd rather chat about your day or your favorite musicals than to prove what a tough, swaggering badass he was. Mabel had met enough of _that type_ of guy over the last few years, and she no longer found him appealing. Charlie, it seemed, was a much better fit.

Charlie didn't need to beat up bad guys or save Mabel to prove that he was a good boyfriend, let alone a real man. Mabel was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, maybe with an assist from Dipper or Wendy when things got rough. And even if he couldn't flatten Baldy with one punch, he _had_ stood up for her and their friends, twice! He had risked as life as much as anyone else. He didn't have to prove _anything_!

But...maybe he needed to hear that from her. Or at least, a sign that being Charlie was more important than being a tough guy.

"Isabel, you're gonna hate me," Mabel said. "I know today was dress day...but I just realized there's a knitting emergency I need to attend to."

Isabel looked up and smiled. "Are you saying...Code Argyle?"

Mabel nodded grimly. She looked at the clock, seeing that it was almost 4:00 pm, almost time for the Museum to close. She had her work cut out for her.

First, she texted her brother: _Sorry Dip, can't make it to swim. You and Wendy have fun!_ That would kill two birds with one stone, she thought with a smile; leaving her brother and Wendy alone for an afternoon wouldn't be a bad thing after what Wendy had told her the other day.

Then she thrust out her hand towards her friend. "Izzy, yarn!"

* * *

Charlie was finishing a long day of work, cataloging records of public works and land grants in Gravity Falls between the years 1880-1890. Certainly it wasn't as exciting or dangerous as uncovering a century-old conspiracy, but this paid him and the other didn't. Plus, immersing himself in the tedium of his work was a good way to avoid thinking about Mabel.

Part of him felt bad for not talking to her, but what was there to say? She had seen firsthand how useless he was in a crisis, how any attempts of his to be the man in their relationship were bumbling or worse. What kind of girl wants a guy like that? Especially someone as amazing as Mabel? She deserves someone way better than me, he decided.

And so, he might well have gone without seeing Mabel again, even if it left a shooting star-shaped hole in his heart. Except, just as the day was ending, he heard Mary talking to someone at the front desk.

"Hi Mabel! I think Charlie's busy, but I can see if he's available!"

"Great! Tell him it's super-important!"

Mary chuckled and walked over to her employee. Charlie hastily looked down and scrawled a number in the notebook.

"Charlie, your friend is here and she has something for you."

"Can you tell her I'm busy?" Charlie asked, writing something absently.

"I can see that," Mary said. "Mabel said it was super-important. And you know how Mabel gets when something's important to her."

Charlie stopped and sighed. Yes, trying to keep Mabel from something she deemed important would be like trying to halt a tornado.

"All right," he muttered, standing up and walking towards the front desk. Mary looked down at the notebook and saw that he'd written the word MABEL.

"Hi Charlie," Mabel greeted him, wearing her favorite shooting star sweater. "Whatcha doing, nerd things?"

"Big nerd things," he said without humor or inflection. "What's up?"

"Somebody hasn't been talking to me," Mabel said.

"I'm sorry," Charlie muttered.

"Well, you should be!" Mabel insisted. "You had me worried! You know how I like to talk to everyone I know every day or I assume something's wrong."

"Yeah, I know." What could Charlie do besides play along?

"Anyway, I have something for you, to remind you that you're the best boyfriend ever," Mabel said.

"What is it?" Charlie said wearily, ignoring the complement.

Mabel held up a small shopping bag and fished out another dark-red sweater. He took it over to a desk, unfolded it, and saw that it had a large gold star in the center with the word HERO embossed across it.

"So, do you love it or are you in love with?" Mabel asked. To her surprise, he seemed awfully upset.

"Mabel, this is..." And then, to her amazement, he started to sob.

"Charlie, what's wrong?" She stepped forward and patted him on the back.

"It's just...I don't deserve this," he said. "You know, I didn't do anything on Saturday night, or any other time, that would be heroic."

Mabel realized that Isabel had been right. She debated whether to shift into Serious Mabel mode again, at least long enough to reassure him. This time, however, she decided on a different approach.

"That's ridiculous!" Mabel insisted, crossing her arms. "Charlie Huston, you're always selling yourself short and I'm sick of it! You distracted everyone at the party so that I could get upstairs and save Wendy. You put your life on the line so that baldy wouldn't kill us. And do I need to remind you that you took a cattle prod in the chest for me? I'm sure you wouldn't have forgotten that."

Charlie looked up at Mabel, still struggling to control his emotions.

"You've been nothing but awesome since I've met you," she continued. "You are a really cool guy who's very smart and who's just as brave as me or Wendy or Dipper or anyone else we know. I don't care if you're not some goon with big muscles - okay, you could be in better shape, but that's not important. What's important is that you're you! And _that_ 's why I'm in love with you."

Mabel's admission, even in her usual excited tone of voice, struck Charlie to the quick. He stared at her, mouth agape, then screwed up his emotions into something coherent.

"I mean, I think..." he sputtered. "I love you, too. And that's why..."

"No, that's not an acceptable answer!" Mabel interrupted. "If you love me, you aren't gonna cut me out of your life. You are going to wear this sweater and hold hands with me and watch romantic movies and continue being cute and great even if it drives you crazy!"

She handed him the sweater, and Charlie, sighing with resigned appreciation, put it on.

"That's better," she said.

"Mabel," he said, admiring the sweater, "this is awesome. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she smiled, feeling much better.

"You know, Mabel, everyone I've met has told me that you're always on and I have to accept the crazier things about you," Charlie said. "But, I mean, I think that's what I like about you. You're so happy and in tune with yourself, I'd be jealous even if I didn't think you were beautiful and funny and all of that.

"But I'll flip it around: you have to accept that I'm not always a ray of sunshine, that I have really big doubts about myself and that just telling me I'm okay won't always make it better. We're going to have to work to make this work, but I think we can."

Mabel nodded appreciatively. "I understand. I mean, I **am** a lot to handle," she joked. "Oops, I almost forgot!" She took out her pin and fastened it on her sweater. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out an identical pin which she'd had made, fastening it to Charlie.

Then they hugged, and then kissed - more gently, warmly than they had before, not a magical, life-changing moment but a cozy, comfortable one.

"Come on, show me what you've been working on today!" Mabel said. "I'm sure it's boring nerdy stuff, but I'm not leaving until you share every little detail."

And so, with Mary watching them benignly, Mabel dragged Charlie back to the research library for a crash course in the history of Gravity Falls' utilities board. After all she'd done for him that day, she reasoned, it was the least he could do.

* * *

 _Author's note: Okay, so I lied, or at least badly overestimated how much I could cram into one chapter. I will deal with the biggest hanging plot strand in the next installment!_


	33. Chapter 32

Ideally, Wendy and Dipper's fateful meeting would have occurred in private, not at a crowded lakeside. But it was summer, and just about everyone in Gravity Falls swarmed over to the lake to swim or fish or water ski or sunbathe or hunt for Gobblewonkers. Thus Wendy had to choke back her anxiety for a few more hours until the sun went down and the crowds started disappearing.

It wasn't all bad, though. Wendy (dressed in a black one-piece suit, as femininely alluring an outfit as she owned) enjoyed watching Dipper swim gracefully through the water. (She had to admit that seeing Dipper's trim figure in trunks, gliding effortlessly through the water, eroded any reservations she still had about her feelings.) Or watching a couple of loudmouthed punks challenge him to a race, and Dipper beating them from one end of the swimming area and back by six full lengths.

"Whoa, Dipper!" Wendy applauded. "Mabel wasn't kidding. You're an awesome swimmer, dude!"

"Hey, it's just something I've picked up over the last few years," he said modestly. "No big deal."

"No big deal? That was, like, Michael Phelps levels of ass-kicking. How did you not make the swim team?"

"You should see the _other_ guys who tried out at school," Dipper said, floating on his back. "Anyway, I made it to the cutoff, but it came down to me and the coach's kid - and you know how **that** works."

"Yeesh," Wendy said. "Of course the guy with all the connections beats the guy with actual talent."

"That's how the world works," Dipper rued.

"Well, either way, you'd better not let this talent go to waste," Wendy insisted. "You totally need to keep at it when you get to college."

"West Coast Tech isn't really a sports school," Dipper muttered. "Besides, I don't know if..."

"Dip, you did Olympic time out there. And you know how I feel about people wasting their talents. Promise me you'll at least try out. Promise me! Promise me!" And she began chanting and splashing him with water.

"All right, all right!" Dipper pleaded, shielding himself. "I promise." He swam around in a lazy circle and then shot Wendy a mischievous look. She didn't have time to react before he balled both fists together and smashed them into the water, deluging Wendy in an epic geyser of splash.

"You dork!" she cried, shaking her hair from her eyes. "You're gonna pay for that!"

"Oh yeah, let's see!" And suddenly Dipper darted out in a backstroke, already halfway across the lake before Wendy could properly work out her stroke.

* * *

Finally the sun started setting and people began trickling home. Fishermen argued over who managed the biggest catches, a couple monster hunters bickered with a park ranger over foggy pictures of either a lake monster or a stump, kids complained that their parents were ending their fun, the lifeguard stifled a yawn as he commanded stragglers to emerge from the water. Dipper and Wendy were already on the beach toweling off.

"Man, it is so nice to just have a day not to worry about conspiracies or investigations or crap like that," Wendy said, shaking down her hair.

"Yeah, this was totally fun!" Dipper said. "It's almost how normal people spend their summer."

"Dipper Pines, you and I couldn't be normal if we tried," Wendy replied playfully.

The two stood there, watching the crowds start to walk away or depart in their cars. Wendy's heart fluttered as she stared at Dipper, still smiling playful, skin still gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. This is it, she thought, steeling herself to make the first move.

"Hey Dip, can we talk for a sec?" she said.

"Uh, of course," he responded. And they walked over to a bench and sat down.

"These past few weeks have been totally crazy," Wendy said. "We haven't had that much chance to talk about...You know."

"Yeah," Dipper said weakly. For once, she couldn't tell what was on his mind.

"I mean, of everything we've been through just in this past month...It's like, the one thing I keep coming back to is that night at the Shack."

Wendy felt a pang of anxiety as Dipper looked away nervously. Was she blowing it? Or was it just Dipper being Dipper? I've come this far, she decided, might as well push ahead.

"I mean, part of me keeps beating myself up over it, because, you know...I know how you've always felt about me, man. And I get it, what kind of bitch puts her friend in that situation? But then, another part of me thinks, remembers...I dunno, it seemed so...right."

Dipper looked up at Wendy and the two smiled at each other for a long, awkward moment. At that point, Wendy knew everything would be okay.

"What I'm saying is, I guess..." she choked out. "I wouldn't mind doing it again. For real, this time. Like, you know..."

Wendy cut herself off, fidgeting with her hands. To her disappointment, Dipper sighed and lowered his head.

"Wendy...You don't know how much I want to say yes. How much I love you and how awesome I think you are...But, I mean...I'll be going to college in a few months, and we won't be able to see each other anymore, and...you could do so much better than me, anyway. I mean, what if you meet another guy at school or if I meet someone, or...?"

He was babbling at this point, and Wendy interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Dude, okay. First of all, we've known each other for six years! There's nobody on the planet who knows me better than you and your sister, and I think Mabel's taken. As for guys at college - like who, Graham? Ugh, I've had enough of obnoxious know-it-alls and selfish jerks. I mean, you are a know-it-all, but you're the nice kind...And you really think I'm better than you? You're like this generation's Einstein and I'm...well, me. If anything, I should be feeling that way about you."

Dipper was still looking thoughtfully at his feet.

"And it doesn't matter about college. Dude, this is the age of Facebook and Skype and all that mess. We can make it work! We can visit each other on weekends, I could come to campus and you're free to visit me here any time you like. Maybe Old Man Stan will get sick of you at some point, but I never will. And even if it doesn't last...well, we still have another month-and-a-half to figure things out. Summer isn't over yet."

Though she was still soaking wet, though her face had a guarded smirk rather than her usual laid-back smile, Dipper thought Wendy had never looked more beautiful than she did at this moment. And finally, he decided it wasn't worth resisting the obvious anymore.

Rather than say anything else, he lowered his head into her chest and closed his eyes. Wendy, somewhat surprised, cradled him for a moment, then parted his hair and kissed the birthmark on his forehead. The two remained in each other's arms for a long moment, watching the sun go down, the only sounds the slight wind and the splashing water and chirping frogs and the beating of each others' hearts.

* * *

Stan was a little irritated that Dipper and Mabel were out having fun while he watched the Shack, but he reckoned his kids could use a break. It wasn't every day that they unraveled a massive political conspiracy, after all. Plus there'd be plenty of time to hang out with them later.

As for Ford, he was back out in the wilds of Oregon hunting monsters that a newspaper headline couldn't destroy. Soos was out giving tours, so he had to watch the gift shop and sell bobble-heads and T-shirts to tourists and dopes. He was happy that a long day finally seemed to becoming to an end, reading through a newspaper account of Preston Northwest's demise.

"Heh, what did I tell you? Politicians are sleazeballs," he said. He threw the paper into a wastebasket. Then he heard the door ring, and a strange man in a gray jumpsuit, bald except for a small whisp of brown hair, wandered into the Shack.

"We're closin' in five minutes," Stan said, eyeing his uniform. "What are you, one of Soos' maintenance crew?"

"Are Dipper and Mabel here?" he asked in the screechiest voice imaginable.

"They've got the day off," he said. "You one of their friends? I can't always keep track."

"Y-you could say that," he stammered. "We know each other, at least, and I-I need their help with something urgent."

"Well, they ain't here, and I don't know when they're comin' back. Maybe you could leave a message and I'll see if I can remember it."

"I-I would appreciate it if you would!" the man stammered. "Tell them that Blendin Blandin was here, and that h-he has a message from the Space-Time Continuum for them." He cleared his throat, then recited a riddle from memory:

"Just When You Think You've Won the Past

Nuclear Winter Comes At Last"

"Ugh, this guy," Stan groaned. "Of course you speak like a fortune cookie. And Blendin, what kind of name is that, Welsh? Czech? Let me grab a notepad and write this down, coz there's no way I'm gonna remember a rhyme."

Stan puttered around until he found a piece of paper, then scribbled: "Something Something About The Past, No Clear Winners Eat or Fast. Is that right?"

He looked up and watched as Blendin dematerialized, vanishing into a beam of white light. Then he looked down at the paper, then over at his can of Pit Cola, scratching his head.

"Well Stan, either there's some weird inter-dimensional traveler with an urgent message he couldn't articulate and you couldn't remember long enough to write down...or this soda's bad." He looked at the can, then saw the expired date:

"Holy Moses, July 2016? Thank God, I was worried I'd have to start a new investigation around 7:00 pm. Time to close up!"

Stan threw the can into the trash, spilling its contents onto the headline: **"NORTHWEST QUITS."**

 **THE END**


	34. Afterword: the Real Number One is You!

Several months ago, I created a Fanfiction account thinking that I might some day write a Gravity Falls story. Though I had read and enjoyed quite a few stories on this site, I didn't feel confident enough in any of my story ideas to proceed. All I knew is that, if I actually got around to writing something, I would probably eschew the show's paranormal and supernatural elements. Which are fun, don't get me wrong, but largely beyond my ken. What, then, would the Mystery Twins investigate?

The direct inspiration for this story comes from work: I'm a researcher at an Historical Center in Pennsylvania, and we prepared an event on the First World War earlier this summer. During my research I discovered, entirely by accident, an obscure incident of a German-American who was attacked and nearly killed by a patriotic mob somewhere in the same county where I lived. Somehow this clicked as a potential story idea, but I had to think of how to fit it into the Gravity Falls universe.

Then I remembered that Oregon, like the rest of the Pacific Northwest, was a major center for the Wobblies (or International Workers of the World), the radical labor union most active before, during and immediately after World War I, and the story developed from there. The political thriller/investigation accompanying it came naturally; after all, "Irrational Treasure" already covered some of the same ground!

I didn't undertake any original research for this story, but I did revisit some books I'd read previously to flesh out the historical background. In particular: David M. Kennedy, _Over Here: The First World War and American Society_ (2004 revised edition); Robert K. Murray, _Red Scare: A Study in National Hysteria, 1919-1920_ (1955); Patrick Renshaw's _The Wobblies: The Story of the IWW and Syndicalism in America_ (1967); and Robert L. Tyler, _Rebels of the Woods: The IWW in the Pacific Northwest_ (1967). The narrative of Rick's wartime experiences draws largely from primary sources (oral histories and interviews of local World War I veterans) which I've discovered through work.

I tried to make the terminology as accurate as possible, with one exception: I invented the United Wood Workers of America, as I couldn't find an equivalent to a national AFL-type lumberman's union circa 1920 in my research. Perhaps one exists, and I missed it? If so, let me know and I'll revise accordingly.

A few readers PM'd me asking about possible literary/storytelling influences. I didn't draw consciously on many, though John Dos Passo's _U.S.A. Trilogy_ was certainly on my mind for the flashbacks, and _All the President's Men_ (book and movie) for the modern-day story line. The most deliberate reference was Thad Northwest, whom I modeled on Tom Buchanan from _The Great Gatsby_ and Attila, Donald Sutherland's fascist villain from the Bertolucci fllm _Novecento_.

Finally, I will pay tribute to my readers, especially fereality and Pkaz, who commented on nearly every chapter. Your suggestions and insights along the way helped me shape the plot, and I deeply appreciate the time and thought you both invested in my story! Same with William Easley, who has provided detailed critiques (some public, some not) of each chapter. Hopefully I will compile all of your revisions into a more polished work, either here, on Archive of our Own, or something bigger...who knows?

I also want to thank jadefirefly3d, who was my first contact on this site, and who encouraged me to plunge into writing fanfiction. Without her stories convincing me that Mabel Pines can be a complex, troubled character, and her personal encouragement, this story would probably have never been written.

Hopefully you all enjoyed this dip into quasi-historical fiction, and that I did Alex Hirsch's show and his characters justice. I'm hoping to have a new story up reasonably soon, which will likely be in a similar vein. For everyone who's still reading: thanks again for your time, interest and support; you are awesome!

Regards,

AllenbysEyes


End file.
